this poem contains a bird
– or perhaps two –
being circumspect things,
they perch first upon
the edge of the gutter
above my head
to survey the wood-slatted,
peeled-paint valley
of the porch below –
seed on the other side
and if I am still enough,
and if I do not move
from my hidden roost
of the door frame,
they will brave the gap
– landing in tandem –
and allow me to write them
© Sarah Whiteley
now the jasmine’s done,
the Russian sage stands
taller, though leggy
in the September sun
and I begin to look
for purple bursts of
asters on my walks
here and there,
the anemones still bloom,
though half-droop as if
weary of the effort
to shine beside their
hardier counterparts
soon the crows will
gather in the beech tree
in raucous reunion –
a return to their winter
roost-mates and safety
in dark numbers
and I find comfort
in the crunch of leaves
the fires dripped
by trees for me to
ponder through, always
the words blooming
and roosting raucously
in my wandering head
© Sarah Whiteley
The first (and the absolute worst) of the work deadlines is past and I’ve somehow again managed to muddle through it. Tired, ruffled, feeling very behind on writing and reading, but alive all the same – and that is enough for now to be thankful for. Looking forward to a weekend of relaxing and catching up on the dusting before things pick up for the second work deadline. And I’ve got LOTS of reading to catch up on!
ebbtide 