Leathered Earth

Our ground has many twigs and
Knife-like stones
That cause us to cry out

Always stepping gingerly about
We wish that we could fly
Or levitate a little
Just above the
Pointed prickly stuff
Down on the ground

We bitterly complain
Try to
Redesign and rearrange

We would like a leather carpet
Unfurled
Around our world
So our tender little feet can live
Forever
In comfort and in peace

Do we cover our infinite galaxy
Forever
With leather

Or do we wear shoes?

Sean Hunt
Windermere November 2015

an eerie song that sings of secret trysts,
of long lost love, of desolate despair
that climbs upon the ghostly midnight air,
where winter seas are bathed in cloudy mists.
and i am captivated by the cries
of melancholy winds and stormy waves
that sing around the lonely ocean caves
and drown the heavens with their lovelorn sighs.
a voice that whispered; "once i loved her so
that the wide sea could not keep us apart,
the sound you heard the beating of my heart,
or murmur of the tide, you'll never know."
as if the sea was haunted by a ghost,
who called my name along the weary coast.

The heavy rain falls swift and stark,
On these hills, the wheeling lark
And sodden sparrow sing in the dark,
As the sea falls from the sky.

The wind blows strong, the trees all hiss,
The arrows strike an icy kiss
The water drowns in anguished bliss,
As the sea falls from the sky.

I pity him with no place to hide,
But wet, in frozen arms abide
A spark against this fearsome tide
As the sea falls from the sky.

Attachments have beckoning powers
Louder in a whisper than the memory of my words
They’ll exchange sleepy smiles in the morning light  
     Who am I to believe I can step into history
     Flutter my wings and change the outcome?

.
The frost, sets in and leaves of red have fallen.
And a cold sun beads on the stiffening ground,
Nimbus clouds, snows of down, now wafted in,
Tagging sun become louder, as ripples on pond
Are waging white with grey, dabbing the tableau,
That nature is painting with a pair of wild swans.

Looming on the hill,
A real monument,
Cut with granite chisels,
On the necropolis of Glasgow.
To remind us who wrote
Willie Winkie.
A remarkable effigy
Of Miller.
There were others,
Weathered and moss ridden
That caught my tired eye.