Moon Gone Dark

In early morning hours
with dawn a blush,
moon rises in the east,
cloudless skies,
a sliver of light.
I watch her go dark
quarter to eighth
to this last slice
before departing
for days of rest.
I feel that time,
light slowly receding,
draining idle thoughts
and difficult dreams.
Then the coda of rest,
that sound cease,
light depart and healing come
on wings of darkness.
There is fear of permanence,
but the moon speaks softly
in the pale sky:
let the cycle be.
There is dark,
full and blanketing,
and once more
there will be light.
I watch her slowly fade,
yielding as the sun begins its rise.
I follow her
when not seen above
only felt and understood
in the beauty of her passing.



Photo by Gavin Spear


Night Gift

Flooded with moonlight
the bay lay rippled
with soft northerly wind,
the sound of owls
echoing in the forest.
Her beauty spread
upon the lonely shore
a gift in the quiet night
to any who might awake
in these darkened hours.



photograph by Rebecca Hynes


These Gathered Wings

Spirited away in the dark night,
I travelled to distant lands, other times
of strange expectation.
I return tired, the night work
taking more than day.
Crows circle in the morning wind,
the light of the sun a golden streak
on the rippling sea.
Always the going and return,
my heart wants rest,
to come still beside the moving water
and know I might remain
even as the tide rushes south.
To navigate the works of man
has been my love and calling
yet now I want to find mooring,
a deep set anchor in this sheltered bay
and settle in with the ancient stones
to weather fast the storms of winter.
I’ll grow like moss upon the rock,
speak each day with the quiet trees.
Silent as eagle I’ll stare across the sunlit water
and let the warmth find me
inside these gathered wings.



photograph by Linda Ethier



B Flat Blues 🎶

Before first light
trucks clang on the street,
the noise of traffic,
a glimmer in the east.
Wind stirs the trees,
hints of yellow showing
in the slow turn toward autumn.
I’m ready to let go the burden,
the many faces of might have been,
and take heart in the morning.
The B flat blues plays
somewhere in the distance;
as leaves fall
that mournful sound
turns the pain of regret
into music.



photograph by Louis MacKenzie