the lambent moon high above the trees,
a sweet embracing darkness and on high,
the aurora borealis dancing over the hill,
late October stillness lying like a shadow
on the trail below the oak trees at twilight.
Winter stirs among the short days, whispering
of darkness and cold moons still to come,
the rattling dry breath of the long nights,
much like these old bones that move creaking
through the grasses, leaves and fallen twigs.
Patterns everywhere, and not of my making,
but the Old Wild Mother's weaving, marbled
stones, hoary branches and mottled leaves,
the footprints of wolf and deer along the trail,
puddles deep in the wooded hollows rimed with
ice, shreds of tattered birch bark blowing free.
There are ghost scents on the wind this
evening, of fresh turned earth and summer
fields, There are echoes of the wild geese
going south, the old rail fence creaking
as I leaned on it at dusk one night in June.
Listening, I hear the stream moving away in the gorge.
Rest now sister, it tells me in its hollow voice.
Rest you now, for all things turn in time, and we,
like the seasons, must await the time of our tuning.
Cate Kerr (me)
Oh my - "rest you now, for all things turn in time, and we, like the seasons, must await the time of our turning"
ReplyDeleteI needed to hear this - I need to remember - Thank You
Just beautiful!!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful musings today! I was studying the silhouette of the lady floating across the moon with the herrons on your logo. I thought...wouldn't it befit you more, if they were geese...on their northern journey? I can just hear them! :)
ReplyDeleteMagnificent dear Cate. Magnificent.
ReplyDeleteMoving observations of the season and the ways of the Old Wild Mother.
I loved it!
That's beautiful, Cate. I can see it.
ReplyDeleteWonderful shot. Is the plant one of yours? I'm dying to know what it is.
ReplyDeleteThere are ghost scents on the wind this evening, of fresh turned earth and summer fields, There are echoes of the wild geese going south, the old rail fence creaking
ReplyDeleteas I leaned on it at dusk one night in June.
This poem is absolutely wonderful. What skillful imagery...you paint with words.
A wild rose in the hedgerow and a lovely thing when the frost is on it.
ReplyDeleteThank you for the most exquisite poem! The very essence — and taste — of autumn...
ReplyDelete