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From now until Spring we will have many days like this. Let's be prepared with the optimism of the sparrows. Song In Winter
I look out at grey. The grey of my Rain-trammelled view. Is there life beyond these walls? It seems improbable On days like these. Where is encouragement? Expectation? Surety of something better? Must I dig deep To unearth my buried spirit? Through blurred glass I see sparrows. Feathers dishevelled Excitedly chattering On bouncing branches. Unaware of their own fragility And innocently optimistic Amid the adversity Of the elements. Each moment new And lived now. We have... the knowledge that The season will change Winter to Spring. Lighter days and lighter spirits. But for now we're Dissatisfied. Complaining. Pessimistic. The sparrow has... a tree And a song. So small So joyful. How exemplary. How humbling. ©Anne Macdonald
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Matters Of Time
Autumn came banging on the door. Summer seemed surprised By the interruption. She'd known her time was near But was still unprepared. She wasn't ready to relinquish, Her warmth, Her colour Her light. She had brought these pleasures to many And had been rewarded with love. Her season was too short' Couldn't she just share What she still had to offer With Autumn? Autumn's firm refusal stung. She searched for consolation, Then remembered Autumn's heritor was harsh... Winter awaited to clutch the baton With icy fingers. Meagre solace. But... When the time came Summer would return. She'd once again bring her blessings Of warmth And colour And light. Until then... She would rest And think And dream. ©Anne Macdonald |
AuthorWell, as the title says, I may never be a writer, but who knows what my brain holds. I'll just let it seep out onto this page now and then. It's a bit of a scary thought. ArchivesCategories |
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