Kestrel's Nest

The Sixth Year - 2007/8

 

Snow in April

A bleak start to this year because my exhaustion made any creative work difficult. However, by April a heavy and unseasonal snow fall aroused a spark in my muse.

The shock of the morning,
white light in my bedroom,
bright sunshine flooding in,
and, at the window,
a white carpet covers all
and small birds hurried at my feeders
with all else hidden
beneath the unseasonable fall.

And in the meadow tell-tale tracks
imprinted on the icy whiteness
showing the passage of man and beast.
The crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps
sounding my progress along the way.
And in the forest branches hang low
each with its counterpane of snow
bringing such magic to the woodland stage.

All too soon the thawing comes
and with each fall the picture changes
bringing the season back upon itself
leaving only the bitter harvest
of frozen blossom that will bear no fruit....
Few gifts come wihout a cost....

© Angela Grant (Kestrel) 8/4/2008

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The Dying Rose

Still exhausted, and death seems all around me. This poem at least shows I still have hope.

Soft fall the petals of the rose,
once bud, and then full blown,
it softly falls away.
A quiet death that holds
the promise of rebirth.
The fat seed pod beneath
its future children holds,
so, after death, life
still shall remain....

© Angela Grant (Kestrel) 30/6/2008

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All Hallow's Eve

I felt the need to write on the last night of the year. And a bitterly cold night it is. Believe it or not, I'm feeling better!

Bone-cold the sky this night
as utter darkness falls.
Bone-cold the earth and see
the icy edges on the stream.
Bone-cold their blood whose
sightless eyes behold us now.
For it is the night that spirits walk.
Ancestral dead do roam the world
and those may quake with fear
who have not kept the trust,
who have not lived their lives
with truth and honour as their code.
The spirits know, as once again
they come amongst us now.
So let those spirits honoured be.
They are our past, our becoming,
we owe them much, to leave this world
as least as well as when we came.
Not much to ask, but how few do?
For soon, all too soon, we will be there
watching too with sightless eyes.
Bone-cold under a sightless moon.
Bone-cold beyond touch and taste
for those to see who may!

© Angela Grant (Kestrel) 31/10/2008