Vivid forget me nots feign sleep,
their tired eyes tinged pink.
The soap and chlorine
at Lyme Regis bay
doth stand to make me think

About the way the rushes grow
and what lurks amount the reeds,
what gently dazzles
behind closed doors
and what we doth concede.

Is the laurel leaf unfathomable?
Is nature that way too?
For I feel that I don't understand
what every body seems to.

The humbled bumbles rumbled buzz
Satin saints upon our door
We wonder what was here,  
And what was there before.

The streaming stained glass
waterfalls, were they always there?
The sickled moon stands amorous,
clotted clouds about his hair.

Stately sit the beaded stars
in a wash of sky,

And still I sit, Still I sit,
Sit and wonder why.

The rain
slops upon
the concrete,
washing.

It washes
away what we
cannot see
and sloshes
the ground
in merriment.

I hear it
drench
the toughened
soul and
soften the
pine.

The drumming
hum of rain
on the sill
sends
slumber
to even
the restless.

And the soft
lustre
after a fall
in which
the world
sparkles,
causes
even the hardest
hearts to glow
gold.

February is brighter.
It's pale blue
aura juxtaposes
the deep purple
of January.

It stutters
in, reminding us
that the adamant doors
of winter have been closed
to ajar.

Only the thin confetti
of snow now lines
the streets in
it's final celebration.

Blue smoke from the slates
thaw the crystals
and the bluebirds
have returned
to the sycamore tree.

O' what sadness comes
with January.
After all the Christmas bells
have rung their final
tune
and New Year has been
cried with united hints
of regret,
a melancholy air
falls.

Maybe it is the perpetual
fear of man,
of beginnings
and the sense
of our winged lives
flying by while we pray
our oars will take us
somewhere brighter.

Or perhaps I am being
pseudo profound

Though don't you get
a summing sense of January
in the Christmas tree?

It leans bare, sadly against
your house while the
fairy lights
are packed away
into cardboard boxes

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.

Blueberry bluebells
sing, imperceptibly
sighing
against a backdrop of
quiet cerulean.

You know
it is Spring when
their hazy grasses
sprout beautifully
thick in the blades
between the primrose,
and when the sun
infuses shafts
of bronze to the lilac
through the giant
ash's baby
leaves.

The dull leaves
cry and crackle as
the sharp winds strains
their stalks.

They flutter through
the wayward wood
like the ever searching cuckoos.

Ochre, the sad oak gleams, barer
in the morning rays.

Diamond frost melts once more
into the crisp leaves which,
from crunchy embers, soften
as they drench

Satin turns to pumpkin
and mahogany
as melancholic
November approaches.