All Saint`s Day

is in November, so I wrote this too soon...

A bleached evening, grey

my memory follows me into the cold

the ice records my steps, and peeks

at my afraid progress.

I lay in humility on the damp earth,

a priest unable to bear the face of God

and the trees make a lot of noise, they feel

important as a kestrel in balance with the sky

my face a forgotten piece of washing on a line

as stupid as a lonely dancer in the wind

Nothing can be created, all that is holy has been

turned into foulness,gold and silver behind glass.

Author's Note

Yesterday I felt I could never write a poem again. Today I can, I don`t know why.

Reviews

[Eric Cox]

Nicely done. Strong imagery. Excellent piece.

[外人 (Gaiji..]

As the last poem of your I reviewed: outstanding vivid images, I'm not lying by telling you I created an image in my head reading your poem. About the author's note, I can relate A LOT to this sensation you describe, now I've already written a lot of poems and got enough confidence so I'm out of it but at the beginning I felt this way ALL THE TIME in between the writing of a poem and the next one.

[Donald Meikle]

glad you found today again (it's really all there is)
Loved your mum's cup of tea too.

[FJ Davis]

Both straightforwardly and metaphorically, a stunning piece of work.
Boffo imagery, Leslie!

[Distant horizons]

I know that feeling. I felt that I wanted to stop writing a few weeks ago and ever since then, i have just picked up a pen and when it comes out, its like "Well maybe i'm just meant to"
Maybe you're just meant to too :-)