Written in Somerset,
Early 1991
Crisp,
The night time calls me,
As it does sometimes,
Like a pilgrim to another land.
Crisp,
Chill in the air,
An owl hoots and I step out,
Into the swaying of the trees,
And the silence of the night.
Starlit,
A few clouds pass,
In front of the crescent,
That masquerades as the moon.
Crisp,
The night time fills me,
Feeling plumes of breath,
Dancing and disappearing,
In front of me.
Smiling,
Stepping on,
Through fields, over hills,
Where morning will reveal,
Where Jack has been,
And carpeted the ground,
With sprinkled icy, whiteness.
And I will awake.
Refreshed,
Staring from my window,
Towards the east,
At the sun above my coffee cup,
Wondering how it is,
That a world so wonderful,
So simple,
Can have so many woes.
This poem was written in Somerset in early 1991 during the very cold, snowy winter. I would sometimes go out for a walk in the early morning darkness... it was something I felt called to do... I remember hoar frost on the trees and returning home to the cottage to write this.
Early 1991
Crisp,
The night time calls me,
As it does sometimes,
Like a pilgrim to another land.
Crisp,
Chill in the air,
An owl hoots and I step out,
Into the swaying of the trees,
And the silence of the night.
Starlit,
A few clouds pass,
In front of the crescent,
That masquerades as the moon.
Crisp,
The night time fills me,
Feeling plumes of breath,
Dancing and disappearing,
In front of me.
Smiling,
Stepping on,
Through fields, over hills,
Where morning will reveal,
Where Jack has been,
And carpeted the ground,
With sprinkled icy, whiteness.
And I will awake.
Refreshed,
Staring from my window,
Towards the east,
At the sun above my coffee cup,
Wondering how it is,
That a world so wonderful,
So simple,
Can have so many woes.
This poem was written in Somerset in early 1991 during the very cold, snowy winter. I would sometimes go out for a walk in the early morning darkness... it was something I felt called to do... I remember hoar frost on the trees and returning home to the cottage to write this.
