The window that I peer through
At summer's break of day;
Way out, afar, and near to
I see the dawn of May.
Through the age-old pane of glass,
A masterpiece for sure,
A portrait of a different class ~
A painted Yorkshire moor.

The sun alights the heather
Though not yet coloured mauve.
The season's fur and feather
Create a treasure trove.
The image through my window square,
Just as the sunlight, that day, came ~
A pictured landscape bordered there
Inside my cottage window frame.

The doorway that I step through,
The threshold to a dream;
When the daylight starts anew
An Eden, it would seem.
So, when the squeaky handle turns
And creaking hinges swing,
The lark out in the meadow yearns
To, oh so sweetly, sing.

But evening comes for certain ~
I latch and bolt the door;
And tug and draw my curtain
When daylight is no more.
Then when I close my eyes asleep
The draughty night is born,
My window and my door will keep
Me snuggled till the morn.

The oak and rowan slumber still
Reposing in their frosted bed;
Holding off the shivered chill
Dormant, docile, all but dead.
Skeletons drab against the cloud
Leafless limbs up-reaching high;
Clothed dew, a frozen shroud,
Below them hidden secrets lie.

On the ground the snowdrops burst
Early risers of the year
Contending to be blooming first
A fleetly winter's end is near.
Premature, the sunlight's rays,
Icy stalactites eroding,
Tumbling down a spectral haze
With leafy newborn buds exploding.

A feathered bird-throng fills the skies
With warbled wonder aforetime;
Showing up in sweet surprise
Stepping out before its prime.
And now a season, bright and bold,
Marches on afresh and new
Driving out the drizzled cold
As spring has sprung before her due.

The day came slowly as I peered out from behind my eyes,
There was no noise, only nonsense.
The sunrise had chosen not to wait for me.
He was needless of my acquaintance as he clambered over the hill ~
As the day was yet still.


A forlorn bottle lay reposing on the floor beside me for company,
His once golden torso now appeared transparent and vacant.
He cast his wide-open eye over me curiously.
I wondered what he wondered, what he thought ~
I expect it was nought.


Far away in the kitchen the coffee *** murmured and babbled,
His familiar fragrance filling the morning air
As I thought of the blackness that he embodied
I recalled the blackness of the night before ~
As I lay on the floor.


Suddenly a feminine voice cried "Coffee?",
Her unfamiliar fragrance filling the morning air.
Where the hell did she come from?
Oh well!
Time will tell.


I cautiously attempted to stand,
Stumbling across to the table in the next room.
I resolved never to partake of such a thing again.
This morning of abject sorrow ~
At least not until tomorrow.

He lives within his Toytown house
And stays, contented, there;
Happy, silent as a mouse
Dozed in his tortile chair.
Ready and alert is he,
Uncertain what's in store,
Thinking next who it may be
Comes knocking at his door.



Will someone call to visit soon?
Will someone come to play?
Will someone tease and hum a tune
Upon this very day?
All alone he'll sit and mope
The smile washed from his face;
Sadly, tearful in the hope
Some antic should take place.



But wait!   what's this?  a fuss he hears
Along the nursery lane;
He ***** his head and ****** his ears
And harkens it again.
Did he sense a stir, so slight?
Yes!  he's sure he did...
He springs and gives them such a fright
When someone lifts his lid.

Just as the year is ending
(As winter snows the leaves)
The autumn glow pretending ~
The winter chill deceives.
As squirrels start defending
Their caches underground,
December's shiver pending,
And swallows southward bound.

The cool of day is blending
(As it frosts the forest floor)
Into the sunset tending
To be sooner than before.
The boughs of treetops bending
As gales race through their form
Spiralling and wending
Propelled by winter's storm.

And so, the nightfall sending
(As shadows shade the sky)
The cool of night and rending
The fair of day awry.
With winter's shroud descending
To cause the season's drear,
Just as the year is ending ~
The closing of the year.

ASJ

She speaks of skirts and dresses
And outings by the sea;
She speaks of curls and tresses
And ribbons flowing free.
She speaks of her successes
And all that she could be;
She speaks of nonthelesses
But never speaks of me.

She looks at morning's start of day
And colours in the sky.
She sees the flowers by the way
And graceful birds that fly.
She watches children gay at play,
Amid the hue and cry;
She looks at breezy trees that sway
But never looks at I.

She thinks of odes of poets told
And relishes with glee;
Tales and yarns of sagas old
As classic scripts decree.
She ponders oft of heroes bold,
In awe of them is she;
She thinks of wonders to behold
But never thinks of me.
  
ASJ

Here, this day, I up and trek
Aways away from home
Across the lane, beyond the beck
That bubbles through the brome.
Ascending, slipshod, up the hill
Where green is twice as nice
Where here the mood is hushed and still
And air is sweet as spice.

There atop a cloudy peak
All but to the sky;
That's where I asylum seek
(Or the least I try).
There where flowing rills below
Divide the valley floor
And there above ~ since long ago ~
The golden eagles soar.

By myself I halt and rest
(Though I am not alone)
As breezes whisper from the west
And chill me to the bone.
I have no destination sure
I leave my angst elsewhere,
Guided by the tranquil lure
I wander here and there.

ASJ