Evening In The Churchyard

The Churchyard – Evening’ . . . WHB – Pen & Wash: 2021

The world does not die as the light fades

it does not sleep as the quick do.

It lives on in darkness

in the breath of the wind

in the sigh of the trees

and as the crows retire to their trees

and the dead decay in their coffins

the unquiet world moves on.

New generations are born

and in their tortured births

grow the seeds of their destiny.

The mole-turned turf

and the tumbled stones of hallowed ground

adding another tilt to their

melted and moulded memorials

while hope continues to rebuff despondency.

We look on in the twilight

coffin-cold visions countered

by the promise of another day

to follow the fading light.

Lockdown 3: Day 51

‘Despair’ (after Michelangelo) … WHB Pencil 1958

After the drab-dull morning
The close shift-shadow
Hovered over the remaining day
And grey-clung cloud
Described yet one more of
So many days
Of such undistinguished gloom
So few delights to hollow out this tomb
For when the darkness comes
And with it fading hope
Then amidst the shadows
I calcify and mope
Regrets are worth forgetting
The future lost
Loses meaning
In the tangle of forgotten days
Each succeeded by yet another
Missed opportunity
One more goal-less draw
Reducing the life still left to me

AS SHADOWS COME AND GO

as more mute shadows come and go
so
my life does ebb and flow
clinging
disturbingly
with my every motion
not prepared to let me go
until at some time
not yet determined
in the day’s misty murkiness
I will merge with the darkness
along with life’s shrouded meaning
to await that time
which surely will arrive
for the putting out of the light
and the beginning
of death’s adventure

Life is made of Memories

Life is made of Memories

As the morning warms its shoes
As the dark gives way to dawn
So new day begins its tale
Yet another story born.

Every moment, every day,
Bring new memories again;
Similar but none the same
Some of joy, others of pain.

Life is made of memories
When each life has been and gone
Let us all remember this
Memories are what live on.

Songs My Mother Sang

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Song Book: Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Songs My Mother Sang

The songs were of chill and anguish,
Sad songs with wistful themes,
Telling of loss and longing,
Songs of uncertain dreams.

Wistful, anxious, plaintive,
Sung in the dark days of war,
As though no end to suffering
Would reach us evermore.

She sang of the wandering gypsies,
The old lady sweet and kind,
Of old Barbara Frietchie’s flag,
And the boys who were left behind.

But though her words were sombre
I knew as she held me tight,
Her clutch was so warm and tender
The darkness would turn to light.

 

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The DARK and the LIGHT

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Winter Farm … Ink – WHB – Feb.2017

The DARK and the LIGHT

Wintertime
today
I found myself
following a blind man
with a stick
this morning
in the shopping mall
he bumped into a white fence
surrounding a display

He stumbled
muttering to me
as I asked if I could help
“I can see a black line
but I can’t see a white fence
why do they
make these fences white?”

A blind man
fearing white
desiring the dark

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Shopping Mall, Surrey … Photo -WHB Feb.2017

Wintertime
snowtime
and out in the fields
if it is not white
it is black
silhouettes are for the winter
as well as the twilight
black against the white
darkness loses silhouettes

As the snow settled
I wondered
could I see white
or could I see only the black
the black giving definition
white reduced
to filling the spaces in between
not colourless
devoid of colour
contrast emphasised
no subtlety
but strength
black has become the positive
black bringing context
and meaning
against the white backdrop

As with the blind man
it is possible
for the darkness
of winter
to bring
conviction
certitude
and hope.

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