Somewhat Later

(C) R.L.K.

The sound of the wind this afternoon,
As wistful as a beggar’s tune;
The sunlight glinting off the wall;
The leaves that quiver, ready to fall:
All will become a memory.
How brief a time a year can be.

Outward Bound

(C) R.L.K.

Snow-draped maple beside an old bungalow,
White beside white at the end of a road --
A place one might return to
After the doing and daring,
After the beck and call,
After it all,
At twilight, a weary soul might return.

And,
As this train speeds me on
Towards the winter hills,
Towards the darkening sky,
I think, after all this time,
All in good time,
No more goodbyes.

Old Hymns

(C) R.L.K.

A morning like this:
First of November, Feast of All Saints;
the ‘gray autumn’
of meditative feeling,
slaty skies, dead leaves.

What has happened has happened.
Let us remember
those who have passed.
Pause.
Beside the river a willow sways.

Remember?

Too many have left
without notice. Too much has emptied
around us, yet we remain
at the wind’s edge, next to nothing,
singing what songs we can.