Measures
October blows a symphony of sighs
with blustry gusts that presage winter's bleak
arrival as I shuffle through the park,
kaleidoscope of leaves a welcome prize.
Swings unswung on, roundabouts without
the rush of children stutter to a halt.
October blood suffuses to the hilt
my heavy heart, and calms a soul in doubt.
Images, bright images that have no
need of language, the pictures tell the tale,
a gang of schoolboys, picnic-packed, hale
and hearty, hoping for a hint of snow,
their teacher, raven-black, with no command.
Oaks stand guard, ramrod-straight like sentries,
rhododendrons, strong and sprawling bushes,
a place to smoke illicit contraband.
The dial at sunlight's pleasure points to time,
the weather vane makes plain the wind's direction,
no need of clock or any vain contraption
to gauge the day, its reason or its rhyme.
The stillness of the morning and the day-glow,
and meadow grasses blessing me with softness,
the rippled waters thrilling me with sweetness,
what other measures do I need to know?
October blows a symphony of sighs,
of spells and incantations for the wise,
who, weather-worn and beaten, seek the skies
or haunt the woodlands for a siren's eyes,
for nature is the most compelling teacher,
companion to my father and my mother,
she cavils, then is kind, just like a brother,
and binds our earthly tapestry together.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
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