Harry Bramwell Bird
Summer Storm
Morning
We walked in the scented balm of closeness,
Kin to flower and to green tree,
Grew with them in our chosen garden,
Holding the hand of summer softness.
In the early dew-damp light of the day
Our hearts were filled with honeysuckle vine
And lilac wine,
Caressing with the softness of our words
On a carpet of easy silences.
We walked unmasked together,
With no secrets and no regrets,
In our innocence and love.
Afternoon
In the blindness of our shared delight
We did notice then the trees uneasy sighs
Or heed the warning of the skies
Until, too late, the scything storm
Engulfed us with its rage.
The shock of cold rain
and cold words.
The roar of thunder
and raised voices,
The rage of hot wind
and anger
Filled us, drowned us, washed away our love.
We were destroyed by summers other face.
Evening
All is still, and silence leaves its hiding place.
Birds shake heads and peg their wings to dry.
The evening sun smiles shyly, slides lower
Loosing its grip
On the moist, and slippery sky.
But below, the grass is littered with worms,
Puddles, dark reflections of the storm
Muddy our path, forcing us to walk apart.
We pick our path between them,
In uneasy wariness, with each step
Remembering the intrusion.
Fearing its return.
Tomorrow
There will be another new-born day
To bid us welcome.
The grass will shine its newness in a deeper green.
We will hear a new sweetness in the morning
And all will be refreshed,
All will be cleaned
And we will once again find closeness,
Find again our lost paths,
But our world will be more fragile
More unsure.
Next time we will be prepared,
We will carry our umbrellas.
Harry Bramwell Bird c2001
The Force
This inner force beyond control
That fires my soul and drives my hand
Will not be stilled,
Will not respond to my command.
This raging storm, this
Restlessness within
That must be free
Will haunt me till,
As Etna and St Helens
Spew their fire,
As lightning cloud-splits
With a thunderous voice
And as a new-born child
In blood and tear
Howls for breath.
The hollow words appear;
Fight for space, form rank,
Level, predetermined reason,
Echo into meaning,
Somewhere,
To someone,
Perhaps;
A poem will see the light
Of day.
Harry Bramwell Bird c2001
Travels of the night
In the still and silent moments
That fill the spaces of my nights,
Between the waking and the dream,
I journey free of time’s relentless grip.
For in these dark and comfortable hours
Released from all contemporary constraint,
Here, in the cradled warming by your side,
In the cloistered holy places of our love,
Here I will cast my baited line.
For in this place and in this time
I reap my memories of our sweet time.
Voices call me back to walk again
With them among the summer hills.
Ghosts take substance, ghosts that
Haunt the shadows in the corners
Of my shortening days will bid me welcome.
And I will once again walk all my paths,
Live all my lives anew, and we,
As we have ever done, will ride
Our precious, fragile summers down,
Swim in the rivers of a thousand swans,
Breathe the wine of dandelion and sky,
Burn the passion of our love
In the cool, green forests of our lust.
And all the years and all the beacons
Of our time will be as yesterday,
Here between the waking and the dream.
And when my time is over, when at last
The final flicker of my being dies
There will be no regrets, for I
Will thank my Gods for all these things.
For all the love and all the light,
For all the special moments that they gave,
And I will say goodbye and leave
This the world content, for I have lived
My chosen time and would not change
One tiny moment, for with you my love
My dreams have all come true.
Tonight, when once again I close my eyes
And seek among the colours of my life
The moments shared with you, the magic
Times, then will we walk our chosen paths,
Find again all our beginnings and our ends.
There, when our world belonged to us
Where we, so new and unafraid
Flew high with eagles, ran free with foxes
In the land of the unicorn.
Harry Bramwell Bird c2001