north light

Year: 2016 (page 1 of 3)

robinsong
over snow covered hills
a trail of woodsmoke

snowy morning –
the tails of three magpies
flicking sunlight

raindrop fragments

street lights glisten on the rain-soaked roof tiles, like the moon

carrying washing upstairs, the clouds scudding white through the skylight

working from home the way the steam swirls above the soup pan

half sunny evening the traces of slats of the blind on the ceiling

grabbing a knife for lunch a splash of silver light in the cutlery drawer

summer dusklight at eleven, the green glow of my battery charger

rinsing raspberries my fingers the colour of my mother’s memory

Sunday morning falling sunlight through the slats in next door’s fence

raindrops on the pink plastic clothes pegs, rocking in the breeze

first cup of tea of the morning: two bubbles circle the cup

approaching the no speed limit sign the flick of a swallow’s tail

bringing washing in from the rain, the squawk of young jackdaws

patterns of light on the cat on my shoulder, I watch his breath

as the early morning ferry approaches the mainland: a sliver of light on the blue-black water

wiping morning damp from the wing mirror, a tiny curled up spider

heavy grey-sky morning: the brightness of the green where the sun hits the hill

leaving early for the ferry, a patch of hillside in the mirror of the sea stops me still

a week without seeing the cats, the length of their whiskers

long slow straggle of cars behind a caravan, the way the light moves over the hill

bare branches of a dead tree at the field edge a gathering of crows

a crow picking light
from yesterday’s chips,
this winter morning

by listening with the same bowed head that sings
draw all things into one song, join
the sparrow on the lawn, and row that easy
way, the rage without met by the wings
within that guide you anywhere the wind blows

~ William Stafford

Take time to see the quiet miracles that seek no attention

~ John O’ Donohue

twilight blue morning –
a jackdaw picks out chimneys
in the rain

rinsing raspberries
my fingers
the colour of my mother’s memory

bending to stroke
a black cat –
three jackdaws

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