Has Summer gone? Oh God, she was divine
Those crazy kisses, that incessant heat
Last seen by The Red Lion on the street
And off to Swindon on the 49 -
Another bus is coming, so it’s fine
That Autumn makes an old heart skip a beat
Her hazy colours, and her scents as sweet
As blackberries that tumble from the vine
We stand here by the bus stop, and the breeze
Blows chillier than yesterday - we wait
She won’t be long, although she’s sometimes late
(Devizes traffic, everyone agrees)
Less leaves than yesterday - we watch them fall
She has to come from Trowbridge, after all
© Gail Foster 21st September 2019
Categories:
avebury, autumn, england, metaphor, nature,
Form: Sonnet
Cold, grey stone in formation stand,
Old standing stones, they gathered round,
Around the magic close to hand,
Old hands that grasped the Pagan ground.
The joyous come to dance and sing,
They sing the tales the ancients told,
The stories told by bards of spring
That spring shall come end winter’s cold.
All seasons turn upon the wheel,
The wheel of life that never ends,
At winter’s end the warmth we feel,
All feeling the path springtime wends.
Form: Wreathed Quatrains
Categories:
avebury, faith, nature, seasons,
Form: Quatrain
The place where living dances with the dead,
Spirits gather to hear what wise ones said,
The mysteries that joins the heart and head
Are never lost in ritualistic stead.
In this, a sacred place of weathered stone
Where I can be but I’m never alone
With ancient spirits that I call my own
My soul can reach beyond mere flesh and bone.
It’s here where nature shall reveal her face
And touch my wanting heart with loving grace
As I kneel and pray in her sacred space.
I’m not alone as Lady, I am thine
And now my lips can taste thy sacred wine
Silent my thoughts to touch your sweet divine
Categories:
avebury, faith, heart, heart,
Form: Sonnet
Round goes the spiral
looping the path.
Straight stand the stones
high in green grass.
Round goes the moat
circling the tor;
solitary stanchion saracens
high altars they bore.
Round goes the blood
red twining the past
tall stand the grave stones
memories n’er made to last.
Round goes the gate
in the churchyards mall
through walks the sacred
peacocks ashen white pall.
Round go the penitents
lead through the hatch
lonesome lost lifetimes
Avebury’s dispatch.
Categories:
avebury, devotion
Form: Quatrain