....and thus the daylight comes again
I never doubted that it would
The darkness of the night recedes
The dawn creeps in, and all is good.
Today we will be bathed in light
and even though it cloudy be
light will prevail, at least enough
for us the distant features see.
What only in imagination
in the darkness we have dreamed
we now discern, but with our eyes
and all is not quite as it seemed
reality the picture paints
fear, with the darkness fades away
for what we see can now be touched
and truth begins another day.
© Rob King 2012
Tuesday 30 October 2012
Friday 26 October 2012
Early memories
This is one of my early memories, when my Uncle took me fishing for the first time.
Fishing
Was I four, or five, or six
when Uncle Bob first took me fishing?
down upon the tannery steps,
an alley off the market place
Damp dark morning, rain-drops hissing
on the river’s oily surface
black and swirling, gloomy, brooding
almost brutal, without grace.
I remember being frightened
by the unfamiliar sounds
How I wished that we were fishing
on the far bank’s open ground.
Barges moored there bump and jostle
Leviathans of black steel plate
With creaking voices they rub shoulders
grunting, groaning, misery-moaning
stretching chains that grind and grate.
There were high walls built of red-brick
reaching up on either side
four floors tall, the shops and factory
cave-like alley, eight feet wide
My fishing rod was three feet long
a little taller then than I.
made of stiff wire, wooden handled.
to me it reached right to the sky.
The reel was just a tiny bobbin,
with little bobble float and hook,
and if a fish had seen my maggot,
it wouldn’t take a second look.
I remember stench of leather
from the factory long since gone
just the thought will bring it back now
Ah! But sixty years have flown.
Kingston’s changed now
Gone the coal-yard, tannery, wood-yard
barges, cranes
and all the closed-in, dark, damp alleys
gone for ever, naught remains
Uncle Bob, (who was a postman)
last fished forty years ago
taken early by The Reaper,
heart attack, poor so-and-so.
And thus, it’s only in my memory
that this vignette still replays
unless I put the pen to paper
write about this, my first caper
Times of happy, scary days.
© Rob King 2012
Fishing
Was I four, or five, or six
when Uncle Bob first took me fishing?
down upon the tannery steps,
an alley off the market place
Damp dark morning, rain-drops hissing
on the river’s oily surface
black and swirling, gloomy, brooding
almost brutal, without grace.
I remember being frightened
by the unfamiliar sounds
How I wished that we were fishing
on the far bank’s open ground.
Barges moored there bump and jostle
Leviathans of black steel plate
With creaking voices they rub shoulders
grunting, groaning, misery-moaning
stretching chains that grind and grate.
There were high walls built of red-brick
reaching up on either side
four floors tall, the shops and factory
cave-like alley, eight feet wide
My fishing rod was three feet long
a little taller then than I.
made of stiff wire, wooden handled.
to me it reached right to the sky.
The reel was just a tiny bobbin,
with little bobble float and hook,
and if a fish had seen my maggot,
it wouldn’t take a second look.
I remember stench of leather
from the factory long since gone
just the thought will bring it back now
Ah! But sixty years have flown.
Kingston’s changed now
Gone the coal-yard, tannery, wood-yard
barges, cranes
and all the closed-in, dark, damp alleys
gone for ever, naught remains
Uncle Bob, (who was a postman)
last fished forty years ago
taken early by The Reaper,
heart attack, poor so-and-so.
And thus, it’s only in my memory
that this vignette still replays
unless I put the pen to paper
write about this, my first caper
Times of happy, scary days.
© Rob King 2012
Saturday 20 October 2012
One wet autumn night.
The sticky tapping chitter chatting
raindrops splatting on the glass
The leaves beyond Wisteria frond
and shallow pond upon the path
The black night framed within the window
sucking light without the room
The soul inside determined bide
refuse to ride into the gloom.
The warm moist air beyond the stair
calls body down to guard the fire
The cracking log upon the dog
glowing, fills heart with desire
Would winter come and winter go
and leave my weary soul forlorn?
I know not, care not even dare not
be aware, not 'til the dawn.
Friday 19 October 2012
Autumn again
All too soon
the Summer sheds her gown of green
and dons her cloak of rust
impatient to be moving on
and filled with next years lust
No sooner fitted and attired
she throws her garment down
upon the floor, and naked stands
and lets it turn to brown.
November mist will hide her shame
though sullen sun expose her
and shivering through the winter months
the white flakes cling and clothe her
The winds of March blow fresh thoughts in
and waken her from sleeping
and thread by thread, the green appears
and sets her heart a-leaping
and none too soon
She's gaily dressed
and all the world is smiling
her warmth and colour fill our souls,
Her prettiness beguiling.
© Rob King 2012
Friday 12 October 2012
Onset of Autumn
Onset of Autumn
The low grey morning cloud
in the wake of the cold night rain
scuds swiftly from the windward,
attempting to suck the light
from the growing day.
The half-clothed Poplars
rustle flimsy petticoats
in protest, attempting to halt
the clouds progress
but they are relentless
in their drive toward
the North-East, their sights set
on the cold North Sea,
Scandinavia, and beyond.
Little know they
that their progress will be checked
by Earth's rotational forces,
and their heads will be turned
like some wild-eyed
driving-horses
reined in from bolting, having spooked
in the dark wet night.
The low grey morning cloud
in the wake of the cold night rain
scuds swiftly from the windward,
attempting to suck the light
from the growing day.
The half-clothed Poplars
rustle flimsy petticoats
in protest, attempting to halt
the clouds progress
but they are relentless
in their drive toward
the North-East, their sights set
on the cold North Sea,
Scandinavia, and beyond.
Little know they
that their progress will be checked
by Earth's rotational forces,
and their heads will be turned
like some wild-eyed
driving-horses
reined in from bolting, having spooked
in the dark wet night.
Drawn back toward the land, they tire
and give up the fight for flight,
and with the sun on their backs
they meekly evaporate
into.....
thin.....
air.
©Rob King 2012
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