Chris McDermott

It leapt and spun

 

I paused a moment
before the clear glass
at the entrance to our flat,
held bound by the performance
on our doorstep:
the breeze bore a leaf and
held it aloft in spiraling upward spins,
brown brittle and beautiful:

 

a broken leaf that leapt
and spun in the wind
just outside the door
one October morning.

 

I watched through the glass,
hesitant to open the door
and disturb the dervish pirouettes
as it hung on the wind
and hovered in air.

 

The leaf would soon be
leaf meal for worms,
decompose, crumble into soil
and be gone forever.

 

But not before this
last mad frolic
and glorious gavotte
with the autumn wind.

 

© Chris McDermott

 

The Church Yard at St Andrews, Bishopstone

 

Skeletal trees stand against
the blue transparent air
and wait for bloods of spring
to surge in their naked bows:

 

the kiss of cold air on the skin;
the dashes of colour
among the cold stone graves;
the scent of earth and sea.

 

I tread a soft carpet
of green grass that cushions
my footfall and I drift,
serene in a chilled daze

 

among St. Andrew’s dead,
and linger above their beds
for just little while
to breathe this hallowed air

 

and savour such delights
as briefly grace the senses
between the long stupors
of ‘before’ and ‘after’.

 

© Chris McDermott

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