Of bushes and forest and small hills; and readied himself, with a chance.

He stood on the edge of a sunset, with houses not far from his rocks,

And somehow the sunset was lengthened, slowed up through a trick of the clocks.

He harnessed the wings he had fashioned, aware they’d permit him to glide,

But never to fly any higher; and planned his penultimate ride.

The suburb he’d wandered for decades had come to its outermost edge.

He felt like a pioneer, waiting for strength to step out from the ledge.

Around him the movement of minutes had now (from his viewpoint) grown slow.

But night can’t be held back forever, since time need continue its flow.

The slowdown had only extended the best hour of one summer’s day,

With sunburn unlikely, and also an hourglass providing delay.

Recalling his visits to galleries, with sunsets of canvas and paint;

He’d never seen anything like this, as time showed its generous restraint.

The colours of twilight would summon orion to twinkle and shine.

For once that could wait until someone had soared over branches and vine.

He bent his legs quickly and kicked out, so eager to see so much more.

Beneath him were fresh summer breezes; and he took his first chance to soar.

He curved over treetops, and wondered if branches beneath them were sharp.

With everything else in slow motion, he somehow could still hear a harp.

He veered in another direction, to mansions built next to the fern;

And spied, on a balcony-courtyard, the one who had caused him to turn:

A feminine woman, whose music was flowing in relative synch

With time’s little gift for the glider, who knew he had no need to think.

He had enough height left, and reached her, as nightfall and real time were set

Concurrent with both of them, once more; its duty done once, they had met.

Like him she’d spent all those years waiting, unaltered by children or change;

So both could embrace their fulfilment, which destiny chose to arrange.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at HAVENFLIGHT.

The news came from Washington,
right from the wire-
“Feed-the-poor-pheasants!” like
a prairie on fire!
John found a pheasant, its last
strength was shorn,
And it died in his hand, too late
to eat corn!

The pheasants get such a sad
gleam in their eyes,
When they take the last look, at
the wide open skies!
They can’t dig through snow, a
few weed-seeds forlorn,
And all that they need, a few
handfuls of corn!

The big Soil Bank acres, that’s
where they lay,
The snow is so deep, and they
can’t get away!
You find the big holes they dug,
struggling along,
With nothing to eat, and the
strawpiles are gone.

The spring-days are only a short
ways away–
The brook will be singing, where
soft breezes play:
The grainfields will wave, as the
warm wind goes by:
But not for the bird who looked
last at the sky.

They once were so happy, the
summer-days made
“A Garden of Eden!” in sunshine
and shade,
They died in a snowdrift, for-
saken, forlorn,
When no one came down the
road, bringing them, corn.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at “Save the Pheasants”.

When summers gold hangs on the tree-
She comes back through the moonlight, to me;
And far on the tide, long that old riverside,
GLEAMS THE BRIDGE THAT WE LOVED, made of gold!

They ALWAYS will be ours, those GOLDEN DAYS,
Nor all the YEARS can fade them into gray-
The moonlight still can light our path a ways-
The path that leads us back….to GOLDEN DAYS.

She come back through the moonlight, to me;
When Autumns Gold hangs on the tree-
WHEN AUTUMNS GOLD HANGS ON THE TREE-
And the night breezes sing of a far away Spring-
By the river with waves made of gold.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Golden Days.

Among the fields of faded dreams
When day is done, or so it seems,
I stand beside the padlocked gate
And watch the evening as I wait,
While breezes call from shadows deep
As willows hang their heads and weep,
The dreams of evening speak to me
About the things they want to be.

New born beginnings, new romance,
Scattered windblown flowers dance,
Promises on meadows lain
Feelings that they can’t explain,
Joy and sorrow, smiles and tears
Fervent hopes and sheltered fears,
Brought to me on scented wings
Those wind blown secret heartfelt things.

I seem to catch a gentle tune
As singing dreams wait for the moon,
And twilight strums the distant wires
To tempt those astral silver fires,
Until at last they paint the land
So that the dreams will understand,
That life is such an endless stream
And it will come to every dream…

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The dreams of evening..

She’s freed from all her earthly woe,
As in the ground she’s laid below,
Where fields of purple heather grow,
My bonny dear,
I hear her voice, as breezes blow,
Her voice so clear.

She speaks to me of times before,
When we first met upon the shore,
But that was in the days of yore,
My bonny lass,
My spirit stays, but hers will soar,
And time will pass.

She looks to me from up above,
And gives me peace and sends me love,
On angel wing and snow white dove,
My bonny true,
And as I felt the truth thereof,
Her spirit flew.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at My Bonny True (A Scottish Stanza).