We are witnesses to their spring emergence
slowly unfolding,
a display of fresh green tunics,
clothing the naked branches.
As a token of gratitude
for the summer warmth,
they span their parasol of foliage,
providing shade for sheep and lovers.
An autumn coat of many colours
a warning of decline,
they await the guillotine gusts,
unperturbed in silence.
Downwards swirling, out of control,
protected by winter`s crystal blanket,
preserving their brittle substance
before the final disintegration.
Tree with its autumn coloured hat by David A. Thorpe
In vain
I searched for your endearing voice
amidst the budding foliage of a meadow copse
surrounded by bleating lambs
venturing for their first spring frolic.
In vain
I searched for your forgiving smile
amidst the waves of golden sunflowers
swaying to and fro in summer breezes,
their heads bowed in common sorrow.
In vain
I searched for your consoling embrace
amidst a carpet of swirling leaves ,
their velvet softness becoming tense and dry
under the glow of a melancholy autumn moon.
In vain
I searched for the sparkle in your awakening eyes
amidst the pebbles of a North Sea shore
left stranded by the restless foam
of a storm-driven sea.
Alas,
Distracted,
I failed to kiss your impatient lips
in time!
Soaring
ever upwards
memories floating down
and then forgotten
like snowflakes adrift in the freezing air.
Ever higher
piercing without pain
the ominous barrier of cloud of a gathering storm
their foreboding misty mountains
offering no resistance.
Emerging
with tense apprehension
like a surfacing submarine in enemy waters
I reach the silence of a blue void
my eyes blinded by the sudden splendour of the rising
sun.
Gliding
with arms outstretched
above an endless carpet of woven clouds
a barren polar landscape
reluctantly melting into a flaming sky dyed with crimson.
Ever distant
an evasive destiny
indifferent to how fast I fly.
Determined not to be defeated
I stoically proceed
my own willpower the driving force.
Withdrawn and tinted with the crimson shades of sunset,
they sleep ´till dawn,
only to rise again bathed in the ´morrow`s sun
and flowering in a more delightful fuller bloom;
their magnificence being crowned by the intensity of their
yellow petals.
A colour only again repeated as a sun,
in some child`s painting.
The heat of a summer`s midday,
drowsing the sentinel cat,
does not deter the dexterity of bumble bees,
sucking from each flower its precious nectar,
like a new born baby at a mother`s breast.
Their annual ceremony,
painlessly tolerated by the passive donors.
The evening draws nigh,
the leaves of trees rustle.
stroked by a gentle breeze,
before it visits the unsuspecting blossoms,
quivering their golden petals;
thus destroying nature`s pretence,
of their being a painting by Jan Bruegel, the elder.
Still at times I recall with fervour
a mysterious and perhaps a mystical place,
and the haunting temptation to uncover its secret.
The winding staircase, leading down to this lower chamber,
increased with each step the sensation of suspense.
The illumination of the solitary flickering candle,
projecting shadows of the curious and apprehensive intruder,
revealed the foreboding door; the entrance to this enchanted
recluse.
Oriental in appearance with numerous large floor cushions
and a wall tapestry, each in various shades of blue,
whose exotic woven fabrics revealed their own tales
of a thousand nights and one night.
A crystal lamp of magical prisms reflected in all directions
blue light,
as if a swarm of hundreds of frantic glow worms,
suddenly released and in panic,
were striving to reach the darkness of the night, in
vain.
Hidden by the heavy damask drapes was
the glass door,
leading to the tropical garden of mango and banana trees,
their large lush foliage, offering shade and coolness,
partially masking, like veiled beauties confined to their harem,
the hues of the exotic blossoms and flowers,
first discovered and named by Bonpland and Humboldt;
their scents impregnating the balmy evening air
and penetrating
into the very essence of the blue room
Far
beyond to where the swallows migrate,
Amarna, her palace astounded an ancient
world ;
a temple to her god Aten, the sun,
whose heat, surging in her blood,
drove her to the highest pinnacle.
Reflected in the mirages of the burning
dessert,
her beauty overwhelmed,
and to her will she subjugated the immensity
of the river,
which blessed her fertile kingdom,
throughout the years of her reign.
Heard only as an echo in the labyrinth
of sea shells,
her eternal secret,
a revelation still to be revealed,
her name a proclamation of her presence;
Nefertiti, the beauty has arrived.
Her tears fall against my window pane,
sobbing
she takes leave of her nocturnal lover,
forgetting
in her sadness that their separation is
of short duration.
On awakening
birds sense with joy her presence,
and chirping
they announce her arrival as she lightens
up the slumbering sky.
Listening
to these heralds of the dawn,
I ponder if the sun will shine today.
The Church of Our Lady, in Dresden by David A.
Thorpe
