A BLEAK NIGHT
The night is a clock
without any face,
as it spins
in cosmic cacophony.
Time is as meaningless to it,
as it is to the depths of the sea.
I often question things
To find peace of mind,
but answers are hard to find.
We inhabit a physical world
with spiritual needs.
Muscular clouds make a difference,
disrupting the order of the sky,
but in what does that difference lie?
Flowers wrapped in newspaper
On an empty table
is a metaphor for something,
but who can tell me why?
DISORDERED THOUGHTS
As if it had a will,
the shadow of an elm
glides down a moonlit street
like water down a hill,
as the trees lose their leaves
with no regrets.
Is it simply time’s way
of collecting its debts?
The trees await another season,
without thought or reason.
I think this fluttering in my chest
is a trapped dove,
with no way of escaping
into some other being.
When I sleep, I feel him
Trying to fly off, lost
and losing his way
in a cosmos, where night
is so black,
it’s often mistaken for day.
I particularly loved the second poem, George. So many well written lines and images that stay with you after the poem has been read . . . "muscular clouds make a difference", shadows gliding down a moonlit street, the suggestion that trees losing their leaves is time's way of collecting its debts. The final two lines provoke such thought. So well done.