PDLyons

only august

crows
almost quiet
only feather sounds
rising
almost still
only slow
steady beating
as if horses
finally
taught themselves
to march in order
across the fields
almost green
only smoky
spiral dust
almost damp descending
mirage
as if insects
finally taught themselves
to sing
like falling rain
across midday
almost yawning
only august
.

Brendon

You used to do skate board tricks.
So I sent padded gloves
Black leather wrapped up your wrists around your fore arms.
You used to play guitar.
So I got you something electric
V shaped to play loud and hard.
You used to run through the reservoir woods.
So I went bringing you bottles of delicious new wine.
You used to like earl grey tea.
So I sent a porcelain teapot,
Green with creature faces from Ireland.
You used to worship the goddess.
So I gave you a dagger,
Rose wood handle, cow hide sheath -
Aged by hunting blood -
Stained by my own youth.

Litchfield

I used to walk by trees like this, even in winter when black like the stone walls beside them. it
was a time between horses and I
was all alone except for friends who took me in, not so far from where I used to live when I
was married and we would ride up the
old dirt roads of New England, through thick second growth woodlands occasionally passing
colonial ruins, old farm fields marked
only by skeletal remains, ubiquitous stone walls in the middle of everywhere and nowhere
and on the open stretches sometimes we'd
race and she always won, even when we'd swap horses she always won.

and so eventually I used to walk alone along this tree lined ridge, the straight old dirt road
closed to modern traffic, perfect
strip to race, hoping since it was now deep winter she'd stay home and not ride by me or if
she did she'd not recognise me - or was
I hoping that if she did come by she'd stop and not go on ignoring me? But it was cold deep
winter and I knew she didn't much like
it; she might be sat by the fire or out about in town. More likely down the islands where it was
plenty warm and people knew her.

Anyway I used to walk by trees like this in a country where winter meant deep snow and
sometimes the wind cut like a knife
leaving wounds like a smile across my exposed face, a great breathless
no-doubt-about-being alive-rush out in the deep New England
winter. Making my way to some place I knew existed then, slight shelter from the gale to flick
and fumble and eventually light a
sacramental cigarette - to the east, to the south, to the west, to the north, as above so below,
as within and so without, on this
smoke that is my prayer... and somehow all I could do was say thank you - thank you for this
solitude, this snow, this wind, this
gunmetal sky, this bit of shelter stone wall crook of an arm, and thank you, thank you for
letting me be here, for these boots, this
coat, this tobacco, this cold, cold, cold world against the little heat of my beating heart...

I used to walk by trees like this
how long ago I wouldn't even know now how to measure
how long now until I wont even know
somewhere still my feet near froze
sun near set
me not wanting to leave
still not wanting to leave
the little boy who always tried
who just wanted to be good
but never really got along
except when he was all alone

Annie In Connecticut

The leaves turn brown
For winter,
The sky's gone grey.
I'm turning my thoughts
Around you,
Wondering how it would be,
But knowing better
Than to ask you to stay.

I'm thinking of how pretty
You are in dresses
And how you smile
When I hold you.
But this winter promises
To be harsh
And I can't be the one
To keep you from your
Alabama sun.

The leaves turn brown
For winter,
The sky's gone grey
And you
No matter what your accent,
Will always be October.

Trust

I walk out with the horse,
he does not resist.
He leads as if there's not a diseased bone in his body.
He does not notice children crying,
rain stopping, sun brightening,
but rather a yellow butterfly -
moving his head
to keep it in sight
until for some reason he will never know,
he can no longer do so.

Waltzing Miss Jeanie

The sky barely visible
Gunmetal cold keeps each bit of snow completely separate.
Sounds, most into silence or muffled by a swish and swirl
As my horse moves through.
Imagine sand against a giant hourglass,
Wicked witch of the west,
There's no place like home...

Nothing else moves,
Rock walls mostly covered
Drainage ditches camouflaged
Snow drifts level the landscape almost beyond illusion.
By memory only we keep to the road.
Imagine being the first to cross this land in winter
And if it were a time before horses...?

Off the open ridge we cut down to where the pine woods
Shelter enough so we can pick up the pace.
Occasionally over burdened snow spills,
Sometimes peeling bits of green, chunks of old ice, thuds magnified by the quiet.
Perhaps an excuse to break monotony
Or some primal memory aroused -
She spooks.
Imagine double barrel blast, a restless dragon, a living legend...

So I talk her through; my voice being a calm place for her to focus.
So I sing, putting the name she knows into the song,
My fathers' curious choice for a lullaby he used to sing to me.
Imagine not yet five years old, frightened from things that you don't even have words for.
Things that move in those darker places in your room,
And then his heavy footsteps, the weight of his body as he sits on the edge the bed, his
strong steady hands sometimes rubbing
sometimes patting while always singing over and over until finally asleep you couldn't ask
him to again...

We make our way like that now,
Dealing with imagined as well as real risks -
Patches of ice beneath this rising snow upon this rising, winding road