Tears of awe

(Stepping softly / into the morning / a blackbird calls / bandaged in silence / I weep – by Peter Wilkin )

Tears of awe

A momentary lapse within this perfect stillness

the silence of dawn broken open with daylight.

A soft breeze of an outward breath strokes

the dew coated fields, sending waves across

this chartreuse ocean landscape. Flowing manes

of grasses bow with gracefully synchronicity

carrying this moment in all its raw cut energy.

It does not pause for tiles, tarmac or concrete

passing ethereal unobserved beyond closed

doors and minds. Slipping silently into the waters

aquamarine tinted, topped with foaming heads

washing up onto the shore, turning pebbles

greenish-blue with glazed sunlight. Slowly rising

upwards in the milky morning mist, it whispers

onto the lowland hills below the southern star.

I stand inside my mother’s garden memory

listening to the song, a melodious fluted warble

perfectly low-pitched, sung with all the love

only living can bring. I can taste the saline

rivulets that are flowing from these tears.



Quiet, not like the ticking clock in this waiting room

that reminds me so much of my Grandparents.

This room is dressed in clean shades of cream paint

and subtle matching wallpaper, with its two leather chairs

tastefully off-set from the pine framed glass coffee table,

stood at an interesting angle, holding only a pink newspaper.

Radiators boxed in wood with carved décor betray its age,

as does the single flaw within the painted woodwork

to which my eye is drawn. I notice the spreading lines

intricate in their formation, revealing the tree

shaped pattern. Today I see the beauty within the flaw,

I appreciate my difference. I am silence, unseen art,

without the need to be painted calico or ecru to conform.

I am the dusky pink magnolia bloom, catching the morning light.