A time to curl up

Autumn woods

Strolling down a pebble strewn path
each footstep a Rice Crispy morning,
diamond dew is fresh on the grass,
trident tips of oak tree leaves
are decorated with shining pearls,
sunlight caresses each watery crystal
gently nudging them to the ground,
the autumn air carries a heavy scent,
primal, cool, humid, earthy,
it is the aphrodisiac of nature,
exciting Gaea to birth the season
slithering creatures move slower,
pest of the air hide, finally satisfied,
the forest is yawning, desiring rest,
it’s stained glass pristine cathedral
a montage of red, yellow, purple and brown,
giving life to this wondrous symphony
it is time to reflect on the past,
a time to cloak in this quilted moment,
a time to look forward to renewing,
a time to curl up in the crib of creation.

@2012, Donald Harbour

Storm

In the west skies have darkened,
roiling morning clouds advance.
The sun lies hidden in the east,
a grey cloak over its face.
Pregnant mares thunder overhead,
their hooves beating a drum roll.
There is a scent on the wind,
Mother Nature’s elemental perfume.
Earthy, calming, full of promise,
Gaea toils to bring forth life,
her sweet sweat seminal.
All existence pauses in anticipation,
Obedience to the wonder of creation.

©2012, Donald Harbour

A new dawn

Dawn rises behind beech trees in November.

In the fall crispness of early morning,
As the frost grew on the wilted grass,
One could hear daylight’s gentle whisper,
The song of the night as it passed.

Below a tree line of leaf bare branches,
Through the meadow and foggy glen,
The sun’s first rays touched tall beeches,
Warming forest creatures and blood of men.

The cock had spoken in a plaintive cry,
Calling the day from its foundling burrow,
Casting its suspicious rooster red-eye,
The beginning of yesterday’s tomorrow.

Birds fluffed feathers against the chill,
Their chirps a greeting to one another,
As on the top of a distant silhouetted hill,
Flowers peeped from beneath earth’s cover.

The heart is filled with an ancient desire,
To join in this wondrous jubilant chorus,
To stoke life’s primitive cooking fire,
From a time once remembered as glorious.

Buried there with in my quaking soul,
Where memory waits in a secret place,
I find an outward drift toward the light,
Absorbing its gracious gift upon my face.

This cherished experience of the ages,
A  thanksgiving for those past and gone,
Yet there before me it is held in wonder,
As was the earth’s first blessed golden dawn.

©2011, Donald Harbour

The bond with the soil

A spider guarding her diamonds.

It is one of those mornings, when
the cool night has mated, with
the moisture laden autumn  air.
A southerly breeze pushes, licking
the field heads of dry grain, nudging
a rustling chorus from the stalks.
Fairy wings dance in the light, gems
sparkling in dawn’s first rays, bubbling
effervescent beads on spider webs.
Movement stirs the smell of life, piquant
aspic of the rolling earth’s bosom, inhaled
to nurture the soul and give food to reason.
It is one of those moments unspoken, planted
deep in the bonding fibers of being, defining
from this soil we came and to it we return.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Did you feed the beast today

The blackened earth lies exhausted,
It has become the parchment map of mankind.
Streams marked as fleshy cracked soot lines
Foot notes to human careless brutality.
A beast roars, baring its oil soaked fangs,
Consuming all that challenge it.
A loosed monster clawing at sacred life,
It is hungry and demanding to be fed.
The frailty of simple legions do battle,
With baggy armor, with puny tools,
Come to wage war against the dragon,
Clashing in conflict with Brigid’s spawn.
Thus the valiant warrior line is drawn,
Furrowed into Gaea’s rich bountiful sea,
Thrown into the oily coils of this hell.
Slimy tendrils choke the living elements,
This ancient incubus from the depths, copulating
With air, water, earth…Mother Nature violated.
The wail is not from joy, it is pain.
The writhing scales of its black body expand,
Whipping across azure blue, taunting.
It spills into the tidal pools of creation,
Searching, reaching, killing…it has wants.
In the end man will close its jaws,
Subdue and tame the creature,
Drowning it in its own vulnerability.
Gaining strength in its receding death,
The two legged water filled bags of skin,
They will learn from the serpent demise,
Until they are overcome by their arrogance,
Until next time it rises to the surface to feed.

©2011, Donald Harbour

The golden hue of age

The golden hue of age.

The arboreal tapestry of life
shimmers, playing with the light,
cascaded rays on the floor of time.
All the souls nestled as leaves
on the branches of creation wait
for autumn to be collected
in a great cosmic basket.
We choose to be so different but,
we are all one in the same, each
grasping our place on a twig.
When the breath of end time
sweeps across the stars we will
shudder together falling in layers.
This beauty is not in the green bud,
it is the luster of the golden hue of age,
a gentle fluttering to join the pattern,
woven into the fabric of Nature’s cloth
where the hands of Gaia tend the loom.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour