Wild Geese

wild geese poem

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Autumn Morning in London

The sky is pale baby blue.
Everything still seems to be sleeping
as the sun dances on the yellow
and orange and green leaves.
A lonely train rumbles by out of sight
and a plane ducks down, flying low,
ready to land, somewhere nearby.
You are asleep somewhere under the same sky
while I sit here, nursing a coffee
and gazing out at the familiar and yet
alien landscape that is not mine
and another world away from you
and me, another someone I could
have been.

Pining

I pine for summer
but now I’m craving
the familiarity of autumn books
that seem to shine orange and red
and brown and smell like warm drinks
and plenty of layers;
stories that glow warmth
and make me feel at one again.

Blues

 

and then, without warning, as autumn
arrived and enveloped them,
a sadness swept over her,
one that couldn’t be explained
as it pressed down on her
beating against her chest
so that her limbs became heavy
and her brain thick
with a longing and sadness
for something she couldn’t
quite put her finger on.

Autumn

Autumn is here and I long

for those long sunny days

when we walked about barefoot,

short sleeves, picnicked

in the sunshine, sand between our toes.

 

Autumn is here and summer is gone for real

I think as the rain outside

hammers down, the streets and skies

grey and dull, the colours have seeped

away so that now, we’re living

in black and white.