Days glide quietly by, so easily,
Worn as comfortable slippers,
Caressing a journey of tired, aching feet,
The compounded sum, of yet another year,
Pages in a seasonal tome, published
In the confetti of autumn,
Each year another chapter,
An incomplete record of events,
Becoming as ancient etchings, inked
Upon life’s papyrus, casting
About for reason, for time.

©2016, Donald Harbour


From the corner of my eye
I could see black birds feasting,
No flesh wasted that is consumed.
The world turned on its axis,
The sun racing the seasons,
No day wasted that has not dawned.
Somewhere it is raining,
Falling upon mother’s breast,
No plant wasted that is suckled.
Two lovers entwine their souls,
A kiss to seal their vow,
No commitment is wasted by passion.
Time arrives in each beggars hand,
It is the taker of immortality,
No moment is wasted by eternity.
Staring in the eyes of a baby,
Feeling the grasp of a tiny hand,
No one is wasted by redemption.
Around each of us there is reason,
Cause to inhale the miracle of life,
No choice is wasted that is given.

©2011, Donald Harbour

This storm without reason

When the waters of my troubled being
clash with the shores of my unresolvable doubt,
you are my rock, the granite that withstands,
the assault of this tantrum tossed sea.

There is a calming in your weathering stone,
stoic and glistening, reflecting your starlight,
sparkling with all manner of life’s crystals buried
in the depths of your perfectly smooth surface.

I cannot claim such strength, nor uphold
the soil that washes from beneath my soles,
scattering as muddied water returning from wince
it came never returning to where it began.

When the tempest subsides to placid swells
your sweet breath is that breeze of cool salted air,
refreshing, holding aloft hope on flying fish wings,
resting in the ebb tide of foam drenched quietude.

©2011, Donald Harbour