The Moon still present in the morning sky.
What I thought of as silver is now white,
with the shade of continents to the eye.
The globe still discernible in the light.
Perched in front of a backdrop of pure blue.
Although dense cloud beginning to encroach.
Slowly, but mean soon the Moon not in view.
Last look then at this object like a broach.
Now there’s just a grey, cloudy perspective.
Sun’s light is way over the other side.
Covered up but its bright glow detected.
Enough to ensure the daylight’s arrived.
Have said “good-night” to the Moon this morning.
Sleep tight nocturnal one ‘til dark forming.
Bleak Winter with its obvious coldness.
The wind feels as if from somewhere barren.
As if in frozen breath has been expressed.
From ic’y wasteland, sea and deep cavern.
The chill felt upon the flesh and through it.
It seems to want to seek out the marrow.
If going to freeze to death, this do it.
How long before frostbite, simply don’t know.
The sensible hibernate in the warm,
if they can find such a place; make a nest.
Even plants reduced to their starkest form.
To get through, for all life-forms, a stern test,
because Cold kills off those unprotected.
Surviving!, not so sure as expected.
The mist restricts my vision all around.
And that includes the way I am facing.
No sight beyond where it’s dense can be found,
until walk on, and near-mist displacing.
It is like a shroud of steam covering.
But much colder, of course, under the sheet.
There’s this light-grey over everything.
As day goes on, it should be in retreat.
Still can hear some birds singing despite it.
A few fly. Others cluster on the lake.
Clearer light awaits being invited.
For curtain to lift. The gloom to escape.
Misty …Blue. Just a little in the mix.
But I would prefer it not to persist.
It seems as if heavy rain is likely.
It could be of biblical proportion.
Flash floods feared. Lakes on land; sights that will see.
In stable weather terms, a distortion.
There are specks, I feel, carried in the air.
And the sky is universally grey.
A muggy light from it everywhere,
ready to produce a downpour display.
Am I walking in the last dry moments?
My risk, to stroll so long in the open.
If torrential, will be at my expense.
It will be me, well and truly, soaked then.
Amazingly, nearly home and not drenched.
Before the storm, forecast to be intense.
Fast-flowing, recently filled with rainfall.
At a high level. Lapping at the banks.
A depth into which would not want to fall.
Could sweep-along craft of fibre or planks.
And large lakes formed on fields on either side.
They would be pretty mucky to walk on.
Have to assume that in time will subside.
Sun evaporate or ground absorption.
Yet, grey sky filled with cloud contain more rain.
At some point ahead another drenching.
The grass, plants, trees, though, freshen-up the plain.
Water gives their greenness an extra zing.
The aftermath of being torrential.
Inspect the result of all that rainfall.
I do rely on the park, for my soul.
To give it sustenance and restfulness.
Natural, the perspective as a whole.
Can escape, here, the worldly dreadfulness.
The green of the grass, the plants and the trees
is soothing beauty when in its presence.
The silver grey, green, waters also please.
Its spirit mellifluous in essence.
The ducks swim or repose around the edge.
Other birds, which can, float or fly to show
Whilst, tweet songs land-based birds from branch or hedge
boldly heard. Yes, the park’s the place to go.
It is, for me, an oasis of calm.
On a world-weary soul, it is like balm.
Vast light blue of sky with cottonwool clouds,
presents as a lid to our grounded earth.
Held up by what? No evidence of nails.
Yet secure above, however its berth.
I know there is air at lower level,
but it thins out at the higher reaches.
If this the support, there would be skyfall.
We would see it on the ground in pieces.
It is colour by the wonder of light.
Seems impenetrable from down below.
Cannot see through. We do not have that sight.
Yet know that into deep space it will go.
It’s welcome, though, fixed blue replacing grey;
With Sun’s warmth. Like this sky, hope it will stay.
How is it you survive in this landscape,
being so small and all around so vast?
The dangers there you manage to escape.
In the land of the living, you are cast.
Your life run the way your nature allows,
although limitations of brain and size.
From your origins, your spirit aroused.
Instinct to feed, and then breed, shows alive.
And, if seen, what a display you put on,
perching, or with short bursts of darting flight.
One moment in sight, but in the next, gone.
Your appearance on my wall, does excite.
Small bird, whose name admit I do not know.
Welcome, little life-force, look-like sparrow.
Tranquil, and almost glass-like reflective.
Faintest of ripples inform that water.
Cubist kaleidoscopic perspective.
Light and dark oblongs, surface distorter.
There is pacifity. Almost stillness.
But look more closely and there is movement.
Surface tension has own form of realness
Lightest insects tread, not making a dent.
Composition of alien texture,
if regard solid earth as the prime mode.
But obviously cannot be too sure.
Natural habitats for life bestowed.
And they are both of the environment.
This water, to such a placid extent.
It’s good alright. Might say, magnificent.
Back in the park, next to the cleaned-up lake.
Notice it’s quite crowded, in the event,
with white swans, seagulls, pigeons, ducks and drakes.
The surface dark-steeled silver, wind-rippling.
It’s full, and I imagine cold and deep.
Gulls take-off, in short flights exhibiting.
Crow, to a tree, around but more discrete.
And there on the small jetty, looking out,
A solitary bird; a black-back gull.
A predator waiting, I have no doubt.
If there’s opportunity, it will cull.
I saw it do so to duck chicks, back then.
I’m concerned, in spring, will do so again.