Read Online Over the Boundaries by Marie Barrett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marie Barrett
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called out,
Would you return again to London?’
I answered ‘yes’ while he, head on my shoulder,
Moved ever closer in the quietly
Unfolding landscape of my dream.
The Debutante
She waited for me, ballerina-like,
In short flounced skirt of royal blue
As she stood, demi-pointe, by the door.
Not even a protegee, just a fledgling
I had helped take a few short steps,
Nothing more. She had other agenda —
Career-forging, fun-seeking tasks ahead.
Her voice trailed off as the list ran out
And I could not help, could not bridge
The awkward silence with a word
To hold her flight aloft:
Know the gift of innocence you possess,
Know the happiness, child, of which you are recipient,
Not donor in this dark, empty world of ours, I could have
said.
O Silent World
Part of me’s been growing
While part of me’s just been living
And now the part that has grown
Far outweighs the other, way outstretches it
As the blanket of cloud that reaches out to cover
From tip to tip the blue heavens with grey canopy
And silently is made manifest
As the white cap of snow that covers the mountain tops.
New Age Dawning
Saw the world take shape out of the mist,
Saw a new day begin. As angel or historian
Might preside, saw the dawn of civilization rise
In some far-off city to the east.
God-time, when man’s thoughts scarcely exist –
Lost in sleep, wearied by striving, toiling
And the effort required of building,
Conquering, destroying
And not surprised as he might be
By this new miracle of day,
This new age dawning,
This new beginning.
First Frost
Winter has set in. Departed
The mists and ‘mellow fruitfulness’ days,
The endless drifting into night.
Daylight comes abruptly
With a sharp nip, a cold fog.
Summer’s lush grass lies
Limp in roadside ditches,
All the flowers are gone.
In the Gloaming
Hospitality, goodwill, cheer,
New and familiar faces
Round the extended dining-table,
Laughter, merriment, tales.
Within and without the crowd
Much listening to the inner voice,
A warm tear shed to sprinkle
The heavens’ shooting star —
Loved, bereft,
At the start of yet another new year.
Returning from racing and the hunting fields
To log fires and warm fare, neighbour
Greeting neighbour under pink and russet skies
As the sun sinks behind bare trees.
Our lives engaged in age-old pursuits
Though talk is of shrinking markets,
Biological warfare, cohabiting friends.
Remote, austere, not too far removed
From the jousting knights and ladies, the yeomen,
Saints and patriarchs of old, their lives long well run.
Saturday Morning Blues
Worried that I was alone,
Feeling sick in the bath,
Struggling with the hairdryer
From a reclining position on the floor
And then I saw the little wren
Clinging to the climbing rosebush outside,
The rook perched on the highest branch
Of the beech tree above a flock of sparrows
Busying themselves in the fallen leaves below,
The wagtail dancing on the rails like an acrobat.
Thought of the cats and dogs I had fed,
Who had greeted me with yelps and miaows and excited
faces,
The horses lazing in the paddock
Glutted with corn and blackberries and harvest fare
And cried, ’Hell! Heaven!’ I may be tired,
Slow of limb, dull of heart
And suffering from this or that
But I am not widowed or deserted —
Though it seemed sometime I was —
And am not, even for one iota of a second,
Alone or on my own.
Study of Louise
Standing in your doorway,
Love and freedom on my lips
And a young man at my side,
I came in closer view of you,
Lost in rolls of curtain chintz.
You sat in a different era then
Quietly busied with the less colourful role
Only the needle you plied
Was more dagger or lance
That worked through flesh and bone.
I saw the pain, the crossed features wrought,
And from the heat of that summer noon
Returned to leave with you
The largest portion of the loaf.
Lost Years
Time it was of dying,
Of going nowhere,
Heart set on no great
Would you return again to London?’
I answered ‘yes’ while he, head on my shoulder,
Moved ever closer in the quietly
Unfolding landscape of my dream.
The Debutante
She waited for me, ballerina-like,
In short flounced skirt of royal blue
As she stood, demi-pointe, by the door.
Not even a protegee, just a fledgling
I had helped take a few short steps,
Nothing more. She had other agenda —
Career-forging, fun-seeking tasks ahead.
Her voice trailed off as the list ran out
And I could not help, could not bridge
The awkward silence with a word
To hold her flight aloft:
Know the gift of innocence you possess,
Know the happiness, child, of which you are recipient,
Not donor in this dark, empty world of ours, I could have
said.
O Silent World
Part of me’s been growing
While part of me’s just been living
And now the part that has grown
Far outweighs the other, way outstretches it
As the blanket of cloud that reaches out to cover
From tip to tip the blue heavens with grey canopy
And silently is made manifest
As the white cap of snow that covers the mountain tops.
New Age Dawning
Saw the world take shape out of the mist,
Saw a new day begin. As angel or historian
Might preside, saw the dawn of civilization rise
In some far-off city to the east.
God-time, when man’s thoughts scarcely exist –
Lost in sleep, wearied by striving, toiling
And the effort required of building,
Conquering, destroying
And not surprised as he might be
By this new miracle of day,
This new age dawning,
This new beginning.
First Frost
Winter has set in. Departed
The mists and ‘mellow fruitfulness’ days,
The endless drifting into night.
Daylight comes abruptly
With a sharp nip, a cold fog.
Summer’s lush grass lies
Limp in roadside ditches,
All the flowers are gone.
In the Gloaming
Hospitality, goodwill, cheer,
New and familiar faces
Round the extended dining-table,
Laughter, merriment, tales.
Within and without the crowd
Much listening to the inner voice,
A warm tear shed to sprinkle
The heavens’ shooting star —
Loved, bereft,
At the start of yet another new year.
Returning from racing and the hunting fields
To log fires and warm fare, neighbour
Greeting neighbour under pink and russet skies
As the sun sinks behind bare trees.
Our lives engaged in age-old pursuits
Though talk is of shrinking markets,
Biological warfare, cohabiting friends.
Remote, austere, not too far removed
From the jousting knights and ladies, the yeomen,
Saints and patriarchs of old, their lives long well run.
Saturday Morning Blues
Worried that I was alone,
Feeling sick in the bath,
Struggling with the hairdryer
From a reclining position on the floor
And then I saw the little wren
Clinging to the climbing rosebush outside,
The rook perched on the highest branch
Of the beech tree above a flock of sparrows
Busying themselves in the fallen leaves below,
The wagtail dancing on the rails like an acrobat.
Thought of the cats and dogs I had fed,
Who had greeted me with yelps and miaows and excited
faces,
The horses lazing in the paddock
Glutted with corn and blackberries and harvest fare
And cried, ’Hell! Heaven!’ I may be tired,
Slow of limb, dull of heart
And suffering from this or that
But I am not widowed or deserted —
Though it seemed sometime I was —
And am not, even for one iota of a second,
Alone or on my own.
Study of Louise
Standing in your doorway,
Love and freedom on my lips
And a young man at my side,
I came in closer view of you,
Lost in rolls of curtain chintz.
You sat in a different era then
Quietly busied with the less colourful role
Only the needle you plied
Was more dagger or lance
That worked through flesh and bone.
I saw the pain, the crossed features wrought,
And from the heat of that summer noon
Returned to leave with you
The largest portion of the loaf.
Lost Years
Time it was of dying,
Of going nowhere,
Heart set on no great
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