April 24, 2015 Word Picture

April 24, 2015  Word Picture

 

I open my new bedroom window,

Sit in my chair and

Soak in the late spring morning.

 

The light is flat.

The subtle colours

Compliment one another.

The far shore;

With it’s blue gray hills,

And a line of white snow

Above the purple alizarin cliffs.

 

The soft sky and bay

Are a foil for the Marsh.

My Marsh.

Now in old fall colours

Without the glow of autumn.

It lays like a flat warm blanket

Caring for the remains

Of an Acadian Dyke.

This harbinger of earlier times

Reminds me that I am the interloper.

 

In the foreground,

Above the flood plane of the Marsh,

There are conifers and bush.

There’s a snowy field,

Dotted with patchy little islands of sleeping grass

And bent dead weeds

Just waiting for rebirth.

Winter, March, 2015

I look through a translucent netting of gently falling snow. Tiny flakes seem to be suspended in the air. Beyond, a puzzle of hawthorn tips and spikes, Are embellished with Layer upon layer, Of meticulously placed flakes. Mounds of gorgeous White snow adorns each insignificant twig. In this monochrome warren of knots and crosses, A very small black and white bird Breaks the quiet solitude. It bobs and weaves, Then flies off, To join its’ friends at the top off the old twisted apple. I continue to marvel at the amount of snow The tiny twigs can support. Each branch is perfectly decorated. Suddenly, a strong gust obliterates everything. Just for a second, there is only white. Then the hawthorn reappears, Naked. And the snow scuttles, swirls, dances.