Winter Trees

Winter Trees

The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing.
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history.

Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietas?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.

Sylvia Plath

And here is one with an angel

Fields of Gold

October

Photos taken on my walk around the garden this morning. The poem is an old one.

October Rose

Will she hang on to Christmas or is her

blooming over? Once lush and luxuriant,

now she's just your late October rose, a

gift quite rare but all the more special in

your garden. Savour her, scarlet, salmon

or crimson, (not red-hot or blowsy), too

old for blushing yet still fine enough to

pick. Still beauteous of colour and still

romantic with scent enough to sate your

senses, thus inspiring a crush, or a

rush of love..... But her petals fall so quickly

now.  Too soon she will be gone to seed or

banished, quickly dried or cast away.

©Cait O’Connor

St Mary's - Middleton on the Hill

Powis Castle and Gardens

Summer Shower

A drop fell on the apple tree,

Another on the roof;

A half a dozen kissed the eaves,

And made the gables laugh.

A few went out to help the brook,

That went to help the sea.

Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,

What necklaces could be!

The dust replaced in hoisted roads,

The birds jocoser sung;

The sunshine threw his hat away,

The orchards spangles hung.

The breezes brought dejected lutes,

And bathed them in the glee;

The East put out a single flag,

And signed the fete away.

Emily Dickinson

Morville

Morning

The Crystal Gazer

I shall gather myself into my self again,
I shall take my scattered selves and make them one.
I shall fuse them into a polished crystal ball
Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun.
I shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent.
Watching the future come and the present go -
And the little shifting pictures of people rushing
In tiny self-importance to and fro.

Sara Teasdale