Springing thoughts

Two days after the last snow left

I saw the tiny hint of life

in colour, purple, on the mud

which rain had flooded winter-long,

and thought of Spring.

Encouraged by the silent sun

the lack of wind, the sudden song

- a blackbird sitting on a pole -

in air so silent I could hear

the rush of wings above my head 

as pigeons - should I call them doves?

 - set off briskly over roofs 

and gardens, sodden mossy lawns

and foodless shrubs where dunnocks live

I stopped, for long enough to feel.

But what I felt was not the joy

that children feel when freedom calls

but rather that nostalgic pain

more keen with every passing year

that tells me each Spring takes us up

the path towards that distant peak

where only faith says flowers will bloom.

© C.M.M 02/18

Perhaps

Aonach Eagach, Glencoe

Perhaps 

The path is steep and rocky

and my body’s growing tired.

I’m looking for the summit cairn,

the peak I hope to find - 

and at the top I’ll rest awhile

and take a look around, 

decide if I’ve the energy

for the track above the cloud.

For I know that there's more climbing, 

there are still flowers at my feet,

but weariness keeps nagging me - 

a voice I cannot cheat.

I’ve wandered far, I’ve sung my songs, 

the wind is still as sweet, 

but all of us are passing through

to where all pathways meet.

My track is strewn with metaphor

and words mean what you read.

We all of us hear different songs

along the roads we tread.

 But looming in the distance

 or rising at our feet

that final hill is where we go

and where all pathways meet.

© C.M.M. 10/16

Not online

Edgar's headstone
Originally uploaded by goforchris

A new poem which I began a year ago. It seems to me that there is a link between our cyber-communication and the sense of connection with the dead, but it can be the case that funeral rites can underline the finality of death even as they affirm the continuation of the spirit.

NOT ONLINE

It is finished. All the rites
Which mark the parting of a friend
Completed in an afternoon
Of sunlight hot on new-mown grass
And birdsong aching in our hearts.

I cannot bear to have it done –
This last farewell, the final act
Of thanks and loving at life’s end.
We turn to face the road again
And though we talk, remember well
And fondly laugh at what we shared
There will be no more actual space
Devoted to the life now past.

I leave his name upon the list
Of those who phone – but if I rang
The screen would tell me “Not online”
And that is what it means. The end
Of sharing words across a world,
The end of wisdom, comfort, grave advice,
Of laughing, teasing, human faults –
All stopped. No sharing left. Cut off.

The hot grass undulates in folds.
A lone bird calls and in its song
Repeated: User not online.

©C.M.M. 07/07