yuletide

the solstice comes in cloudy the short day
will not be warm but neither very cold
the sky above's a smooth and pearly grey
the pine trees here are not young or old
but their gods are gone and the yule fire
is quite put out the thunder will not speak
ill-luck will burn somehow and no glib liar
can stop us getting the reward we seek
outside the promised rain is not yet here
but no stray light illuminates the ground
the shrubs are green though not yet sere
and in the distance there's a buzzing sound
the year's at bottom there's no shorter time
the sun now moves at last toward the prime

beyond all reason

to praise unfinished creation is a start
knowing that imperfection is the way
to craft a kind of knowing that will stay
where it belongs in each and every heart
the journey from home out to the mart
is matched by regress on each rainy day
or sunny it doesn't matter that's the way
of knowing nothing's whole it's only part
of a much larger neverending growth
passing through us going who knows where
we grasp if we can seize it the ripe fruit
in eagerness and we would not be loath
to see the product in the brightening air
not knowing whether our desire will suit

Accounting for the passage

In all we do, there's always a small voice
inside our heads that carps and critiques
each single act;  another thing that seeks
to let us know the consequence of choice.
There's always a sort of record, an invoice,
to take account of hours, days and weeks,
the depths we sink to, and the highest peaks;
another voice, though, bids us to rejoice.
Between the rocks, in each life's narrow course,
the water flows cold and amazing deep;
till it reach ocean not a one will drown.
The surge and life itself will not divorce,
we'll hear the voices even when we sleep,
and each of us in turn will earn a crown.

Georgia at midwinter

The bird in the plant-pot bobs its head,
it's seeking something, needs to get its food;
a creature of the season, deep brown-hued,
it brings with it cheerfulness not dread.
Still there's a flower, the last one in the bed,
a promise that the year will be renewed
though cold and raw; stuck here in the feud
between the years, we seek for better hope.
Another turn, and the year will be done
and all our promises set to begin again.
We see the season moving up the slope
with certainty that soon we'll see the sun
and spring will open for us clear and plain.

watching the drizzle

thin drip of silver from the heavy grey
light rain that marks the wintery start
the motion of the water almost an art
bleaker the evening than the whole past day
from proper work the mind begins to stray
i wait for full completion of my heart
the little birds right past the window dart
and happier thoughts anxieties allay
right on the nose i know that waiting's done
what happens next is happier enterprise
no little meaning in the watching eye
my heart is waiting for the coming sun
while yet the world is grey before its rise
whatever has honest value will not die

eternal spirit of the chainless mind

what we believe in silence should be said
not to speak out is a denial too great
to be borne for each day the fresh slate
must be inscribed or else we're too soon dead
freedom requires more space than the head
its truth demands that we deny all fate
our hope insists that we break down the gate
before all honour and decency are sped
the voice that speaks is the one that's heard
the silent are ignored for all their pride
it's courage that brings power upon the earth
and all we need is one unvarnished word
to be uttered openly never should we hide
what we expect to bring us to new birth