As night rises the sky darkens
and landscape turns to black;
there is no definition between
homes, grounds nor sky
except for the street lights,
illumination in a hazy green.
After the darkening the background
becomes a winter white veil
with flakes of snow blowing
cloaking the ground with refreshing
whiteness, and tree branches
show their form in stage front.
As night rises I hear birdsong,
soft whistles when Mr. Cardinal
invites his Mrs. to dine with him.
They arrive, he first, ensuring
all is well at the feeder,
soon after she flutters to the ground.
The gentleman he is keeps watch
while his lady feeds from ground seed,
once sun finally sets he joins her in the feast.
The Old Burying Ground
contains bits and pieces of broken stones,
stones once recognized those who passed years ago
are now sadly laid out in bits and pieces on a slab
without a hint of their burial sites as a whole.
There has been no attempt to solve the puzzles
of who they are and where they belong
in the hundreds of gravestones in this burial ground.
For Mary and Alson ? a good detective will find
their homes so they may rest, again, in whole.
Prowling in early morning
or is it late night, at least
well before dawn,
my eyes seek the moon
wondering its formation;
full, crescent, waning or waxing.
and colour, be it white or orange.
Orange tis the colour
when it rises and on during the night.
As dawn begins it changes
to white, a translucent white
in the western sky
soon to disappear as
the sun smiles from the east.
As the old factory closes
the one memory I hold dear
is of an ancient cabinet of worn wood,
and its etched drawer pulls
greased and stained from time,
of expert hands searching
for the right nut; the right bolt, washer, and screw;
just the right tool to finish the job.
such is the weather,
squalls, frigid temperatures,
only six weeks till Spring
till Spring sweeps Winter
away, refreshing the land
with a new colour
new colour of growth,
pastels and brilliant greens
springing from deadwood
from deadwood, grounded
provided homes to creatures
sleeping through Winter
through Winter they rest
until warmth of sun and scents
wakes them to new life
new life once again
as the furry rodent says,
wanna buy swamp land?
