Seasonal Hiakus

SEASONAL HIAKUS

Summer

Days stretch out their arms
Spirits lift with rising sun
Bare feet in the sand

Autumn

Leave are falling down
Small Wellington-booted feet
Kick them through the town

Winter

Not a time of death

[...] Read more

poem by Lesley Diane Sutherland
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I Am The Stone In The Horse's Shoe

I AM THE STONE IN THE HORSE'S SHOE

I am the stone in the horse's shoe,
The unwanted present that's no longer new,
I am the garden where the grass has died
And I am the tears that I cried.
I am the crust on the side of the plate
The left-over pieces that no one ate,
I am a shell washed in with the tide,
I am the echo after you lied.
Oh I am the heart that was beating with love
For the sun and the moon and the stars above,
I was the girl with wings of a bird
The one for whom it seemed that you cared.
But now I'm the stone in the horse's shoe,
Wave me farewell and kiss me adieu.

poem by Lesley Diane Sutherland
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Winter Sonnet

WINTER SONNET

Winter's white cloak is wrapped round the high peaks,
Rosily tinting, blushing at daybreak,
Icing the shallows of young mountain creeks,
Echoing calls from bittern and corncrakes.
Drunk on the freshness of icy, cold air,
Who could not love the silence of snowfall?
Drifing like pillows and nothing's astir,
Covering the hillsides with virgin-like shawl.
Some bright days sparkle with showers of ice,
Diamonds adorn the moss and the grass blades,
Rivers run swiftly through wild paradise,
Swirling through forests before daylight fades.
Everything's clear, so black and so white,
A monochrome season full of delight.

30.1.08

poem by Lesley Diane Sutherland
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The Wounded Butterfly

This poem is inspired by the painting ‘The Wounded Butterfly’ by Edward Atkinson Hornel which I saw in the Williamson Art Gallery in Birkenhead. It shows three little girls sitting in the sand dunes and in the palm of the eldest is the wounded butterfly that the girls are sadly looking at. I wrote it from the point of view of the butterfly.

The Wounded Butterfly

The waves whisper against the shifting sands,
And gentle breezes breathe the softest sounds,
Your sorrow falls into your open hand
As I, forever now, am on the ground.
Without a care I lived my thoughtless life,
Alighting on one precious flower then gone,
Not knowing of the human world of strife,
Not knowing that my freedom would be done.
You children of the world of sound and light
Who live for more than just one paltry day,
I hope you’ll never suffer my sad plight,
Let no one hold your yearning wings at bay;
Soar high, high up into the waiting sun
Be free to laugh and love and swiftly run.

Oct 2005

poem by Lesley Diane Sutherland
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