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.

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.

Summer

holds promises we cannot see

the dream of new beginnings

long evenings and warm days

stretching out in front of us

full of hope, expectations

and long empty days

ready for potential

unwritten canvases ready

to be filled.

 

But then it starts to run away

faster than we can

keep up with it

and too soon, we’re mourning

the dying days and the loss

of all that time

which once stretched

out

in

front

of

us.