Jason Doyle

Approaching winter, Earth holds its breath.
Trees, unweighted by life
Scratch the sky.
The wipers scrape, waving to each other.
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On a cold morning in January
I see him there
With a natural calm
Commanding the Square.
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There are too many sad poems
And poets.
Too much grinding grief roams
To and fro; it
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My mind is a lake of ripples
Caused by past pebbles
That lap on the shore of my consciousness.
She was a rock.
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“Would you not get bored? ” They ask.
“How could I? ” Was the reply,
“When there are yet words to be written, read, rhymed,
Peaks to be painted, paced, climbed! ”
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Oh, setting sun
You fall on four years’ work
Yet the numbing knowledge
Persists.
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I saw a hovering bumblebee
Disturbing petals of a cherry tree
With its downward thrust
An Immense way to dust
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Purring over the night grey grass,
The Firefly determines its time
And brilliance explodes from his body.
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Tile ‘tween twin tile
Broken by breath,
Bent by brine;
Forces for flow.
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The speed of thought is different from light and sound
It remains an inconstant fluctuant
Given to moments quite profound.
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