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Lynn White - 2


The Breathing Days

In the days when I still breathed,
the days before 
living took my breath away,
the days before 
I knew my soul was there.
I thought about this time,
this time of no light,
the forever night time
with no breath, no air 
to breathe.
Just dust and darkness.

And I pondered.

Would there be slow decay 
or fast.
Stillness or movement.
Now I know.
I know everything about
the dust and darkness.
But I can't tell you.
Not now
in these days 
of no breath, 
no air
to speak.
Only my soul can speak.
Can you hear me? 
​

The Hoopoes Are Back

The hoopoes are back,
even though
the walls and holes they liked to nest in
were destroyed by human nest builders
four years ago,
when there was a housing boom
and money to be made.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in
were destroyed by human nest builders
three years ago,
even though,
there was no market for nests
and no money to be made.

The hoopoes are back,
even though
the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in
were washed away two years ago,
as the walls which stopped the storm flow
were destroyed by human nest builders,
to prepare the ground for money to be made.

The hoopoes are back,
even though
their nesting places are hidden, buried
under growing mountains of rubble brought
by the human nest builders a year ago
as there is no demand for human nests
and no money to be made, except from rubble.
Hey, the hoopoes are back! I’ve seen them!
The hoopoes are back!
​

Picture


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End of the Season

​The season of wrinkles 
and over ripeness
has arrived 
too soon.
Shriveled buds. 
Fruits bursting open,
their seeds drying out,
beginning to crinkle
and wrinkle.
Beginning to split
and break.
Beginning to moulder
and dribble with damp.
Their past spring 
a distant dream.
Or not remembered at all.
Faded
away
like the fresh shoots
of hopeful green growth.

Even the memories of the 
florid, blowzy summer’s blooms
are fading.
Fading fast
and faster.

Perhaps this season of dry 
dampness
has been here a while
and I haven’t noticed.
It’s been approaching
a long time.
Slow at first
imperceptible.
Speeding up, then
quickening.
But still
imperceptible
almost
unnoticeable
as everything
slows down
quickly.
So quickly
now.

I think that winter has arrived.
The season is over,
finished
lost 
beyond returning.
​

         ♢

                                                         Dawn Chorus

It starts with one.
One skylark singing.
One Carson warning.
Then the robins and blackbirds join in. 
The early birds, like Carson.
Then the wrens and warblers
as the daylight warms them.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
The warning calls are warming up as well,
strengthening their numbers 
as the bird song
dies away.
Listen.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
Listen. 
Don’t sleep.
Don’t wait
to hear 
the silence.

Go to page 1 of Lynn White's poetry

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