A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


The dusky melancholy returns,
The brisk, smokey air,
Crisp to the sound,
Of falling leaves,
As we enclose ourselves,
Once more,
Within the comfort of hearth
And home,
Our harvest of dreams,
Their vapour
No longer met by playful sun,
Condense back into the heart,
Hiding again until,
Next year.


We are the curling, ecstatic tip,
The effervescent foam,
Shimmering and sparkling,
Rolling home to a distant shore,
Yet I hear barely a whisper,
What marks this passing?
Lost, to the curious way
The voice of power we tell,
By a final crash,
A dying roar,
Not in the silent,
Breathing swell.


As my vision blinds me,
Obscuring all that I may see,
Thus my knowledge finds me,
Of all I might be.


What magic in a kiss.
The meeting of silence,
A sharing of breath,
Tongue stilled,
Dumbed by an exquisite mystery,
Lips that speak,
Softer than a whisper.


Just a whisper of welcome
Sweeps the cobwebs aside
From the heart,
All may touch me now,
My silence quickened
By every quivering message,
Each shimmering moment,
No longer a wish to hide,
But feel how grand,
To steal eternity,
Strand by strand.