Poetry | Stories | Photography
The wild winds from across the hills whip up
a number of feelings in this winter of ours.
We feel the ice from across the southern sea
flow up through us and change us again.
Still, the wild winds won’t change the hearts
of the many who will never understand.
They remain still and translucent to our eyes,
as they never realise their full potential.
Whispers from you haunt the
places and spaces we shared.
Winter winds whisper words
once spoken from your lips.
Wishing you to stand beside
me and say my name kindly.
Winter winds whisper a name
once yours; then, then Kadota.
Whispers of you linger as the
snow falls from my heart.
Soft pink petals
budding ready to bloom
against the soft grey sky.
Droplets, dance, splash
and cling to the petals
of a new budding bloom.
Soft sounds whisper
a song of endings and
beginnings, as buds bloom.
Soft still snow-covered streets
sit still waiting for paw prints.
Soft still snow-covered night
stays still and dark until light.
Soft still snow-covered trees
stand still watching paw prints.
Too much sun,
not enough shade.
Flowers in bloom,
too many colours.
Too much light,
not enough darkness.
Birds sing and dance,
too many songs.
Too much Summer,
not enough Winter
to take my heart,
make it cold,
feel the chill,
the Autumn feel.
Warm skin prickles
cool air across skin
Words left unsaid
leaves scar tissue
Warmth left unsung
holding on to winter
Words left unspoken
leaving on the wind
Seated at the window watching
the way snow falls on red cedars.
Night crept up too quickly,
as the days shorten to hours.
You are never far from my mind
as your tree grows taller, redder.
Snow covers our world of love,
and the red cedars stand tall,
and the red cedars stand tall;
they are a reminder of the blood
and the way you passed from light.
Seated at the window watching the
way snow falls on what was our love.
The many, the masses,
never look upwards.
There is the sky, patterns,
ceilings of Filigree up there.
The many, the masses,
looking towards nothing.
There. Up there is where
I go often;
looking upwards,
when they look towards nothing.
You walked in the busy city, stopping to wait for the right light.
A quick snap below of what’s above, reminds you of Winter’s day.
Looking back, you stare at the image of Melbourne town.
There is a silent way about the grey; a stillness in the sky.
Perhaps you will again see Melbourne moving on a winter’s day.
Howling from the forest,
Wintertime is on the way.
A sea breeze turns wild,
Clouds move overhead.
Woods once silent, now
move in urgency to the sky.
Many crows do fly across the sky,
To show us a Portent of death.
