Because her eyes were always
glancing downward
to see what lay at her feet
between strides or before the next step
it was inevitable that leaves would
one day summon her attention
Autumn time and the colour and curl
the drift and crackle under foot
their sculptured forms
so well curated against the drab
gallery grey-wet pavements she trod
But their very delicacy wore her down
until one day she saw a leaf
with a print mark the pattern of a boot’s
press and sole against the fallen foliage
of a Populus tremula
(or so she thought)

Taken then to her mantelpiece to dry
it slowly curled like a rug
to show only the weaver’s side
plain but variegated with nature’s stitch
ready to be carried on a merchant’s horse
this fine kilim of autumn
with its footprint signature
hidden from view from harm
on its journey over the mountains

Sky bleeds thin red line__
    Obsidian blade cuts deep
    hinterland of time.

r ~ 8Mar14

A festoon of larks swing across a spire of clouds.

When one poet in plaintive wail, bemoans his certain knowledge,
his efforts paled and pallored by compare to giants long immortalized,
and yet provokes a third, yet another to compose,
pledged has it that the grayed ashen bones
of Shakespeare, Marlowe and his ilk and crew,
neath sod and sand, and English loam and land,
but for an instant, a tradition says,
their remains glow and gleam,
a poet dead centuries, yet for a few seconds risen,
lighting and lifting, not just him, but those who
surround themselves with cherished words spent freely

There's shades of grey throughout the day,
Throughout the night entire
And should we bleed in questing need
Comparisons conspire.

Shades of grey when they must pay
To ply as best they try,
Whilst few shall rise to grasp the prize
We falterer's won't cry...

For Shakespeare wrote...
To write bespoke commits sad souls to die.
M.

Who, I ask, has all of this?
Who, midst they, has been so blessed?
Who, midst we, appreciate
The hidden wealth within our quest?

Inspiration’s chosen few,
Have rationalised the jewels so grand,
Interred within the written word
We pass betwixt us, hand to hand?

As realised, this hidden wealth,
Not obvious yet all about,
This flow of verse is valued such
We can no longer…do without!

Conjugally, between we few,
Considerations shared by note,
A *** pouri of points of view,
Of eloquence imbued by wrote.

Herein lies our cache of wealth
Of magnitude exceeding gold,
To share betwixt… this verse of thought
Then reach to seek a hand to hold.

Marshalg
“Foxglove”
TARANAKI
5:00 am. 2 March 2014