Beautiful birth,
(And so) Your cycle inaugurates,
Upon gossamer bedaub branches,
You creep from your bed like buds.
Adolescent and awakened,
Just by your presence.

Blossom emerges,
Floods the air with sweetly scents.
Enchanted by her splendour,
You form an alacritous affair.
Although inevitably, this will end.

Upon awakening,
The beauty of blossom has gone.
Desolate and alone, you carry on your revolution.
Illumination comes and goes habitually, until,
You find yourself in impending darkness,
More often than usual.

Metamorphosing from day to day,
From the green integrity of youth,
To the glistening of golden tones.
Lambent oranges merge into recherché reds.
You finally find beauty in yourself.

Fellow friends cascade and slip away,
Their own gravitation reminds you of your own.
You foresee your predestined end,
However, instead of feeling endless melancholy,
You envision how far you’ve come.

And from the safety of your abode,
Like Icarus, you fall to Earth.
Upon the gelid ground you lay.
Gathered with fallen friends, amongst a mound,
You finally sleep.

A Day Spent by the Window

Inspired and influenced by some diary entries I read at University while I was having an existential crisis. I tried taking excerpts from diaries and adding my own feelings of sadness that we do not get to watch the marvels of nature forever.

Wild clouds and great swathes of mournful light,
Across the resplendent valley.
And rain gleams in a shower of diamond spearlets,
That dazzle my eyes.
White smoke from the water rises above the hilltops,
And is snatched by the interminable wind.
Instantaneously the rain, relentless, stops.
It has run its course, the air rinsed quite clear.
An apricot sky of flames and solemn pinks transpires,
The Sun adjourns at the end of another day.
And as I retire too, from my front row seat,
From a sight that makes me feel my immortality.
I am pervaded with wondrous melancholy.

Scrutinising the Solitude

This poem is inspired by James Wright’s poem titled ‘Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota‘, and from spending time with my Grandad in a small village in Norfolk.

The ring-necked pheasant flies to his domain,
In the impending darkness of dusk.
The hazel and golden tones of its feathers,
Fading in the concluding light.

A canopy of pine trees shelter me,
And the imminent shadow that forms,
Emits a placid tranquillity.
Peace, alas peace!