The High Tide

High Tide

In the high tide 

of darkness, 

in the cold, 

the wet 

and wind blown, 

the new dawn 

waits off stage, 

waiting for the surge 

of winter, 

the blindness 

of January, 

in seeds 

of clouds 

and moon, 

waiting to be sown, 

and below, 

the huddled rooftops, 

behind alder, 

beech 

and yew, 

the village church 

points skywards, 

and chimes 

to the world, 

time unfolding 

the hours anew.

For it’s a long way 

to summer, 

and autumns long 

and fallen, 

in the leaves across 

the empty country lane, 

and so to walk 

into the morning, 

with coat, 

hat and scarf, 

and believe 

that April 

will come

once again.

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
[email protected]