Rumination
When the nights close in
Afternoons and evenings converge,
The long summer days having moved on.
Leaves capitulate like flames frozen upon the ember season
Gently stirred by the breath seen murmuring around the bough,
Serenaded by the nature of contemplation.
We confine ourselves from the numbing cold,
Consoling ourselves by the warmth of the fire,
Reassured by our reminiscences maturing in ardent grace.
As the perennial atrophy cauterizes the peregrination,
Before expectation burns through the vapours of matutinal glamour
Reaching across the vault of cerulean restoration.
Rising upon the orient horizon of an aestival veranda,
Spreading its symphony of molten nuance
Through the apparition of an ocean exhumed.
Climbing the balcony of postprandial pioneering
By intervening our denial,
As we observe the rumination.
Before surrendering to the season of grievance,
Where beauty’s acquired by its more alluring honesty
As opposed to more obvious estimations.
The Cycle of Life
Eventually the horizon will burn in turn with the darkened sky
And the moon shall shine as a fossil in homage of night,
Embraced with sanctimonious judgement of nature’s deceit
As stars journey passed escaping those forever still and vacant
With such privilege to witness destiny in its proposal
As summers arousal becomes weathered by autumnal mists,
Clearing for winters serrated breath,
Before the brides of benevolence provide many a mellow treat under this raw arrangement,
And we occasion ourselves into the clear revelation of calm turbulence,
Where time has no age.
Winter Blossom
No sooner has the snow died back from the ground and trees
Then the Galanthus and blackthorn blossom
Before the cherries shed theirs,
Providing a covering of snow through spring,
Crowned by the May bloom serenaded by elder
With the cow parsley and stitchwort amongst the verges
Where meadowsweet froths
As the oxeyes watch you wander by
Towards the woodruff and ransoms thawing along the riverside.
Beneath the Yew
A robin perches on the grave stone
Like a spirit watching out for me,
Cocking its body, then it’s head,
Before fluttering into the yew hedge,
Where a blackbird bounces,
Flicking the leaves to the side,
Rummaging amongst the decay,
To find a worm and end its life
In preservation of its own.
Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, and CommuterLit.
