THE WAITING
It's a thousand years now since I died.
I can't get used to it, though I've tried.
To some the silence may appeal
but to me it does not seem real.
Or all too real, perhaps. Who knows?
I remember a whispering of snow.
But here, beneath the frozen ground,
is always a hope of some small sound.
It is this, all this, I find so grating.
The stillness, silence; the waiting, waiting.
EVENING SONG
Now the evening sun has set,
time to leave empty rooms, and yet,
as last light strains between the trees
my mind is bathed in memories
of times long gone, yet still so real,
precious moments I brightly feel.
O, what happy days I have known
in this old house, in this our home.
Sparks of time I'll aye remember,
quenched in sunset's dying embers.
But yonder, see! A blue horizon,
it's early morn, the sun is rising.
In the east a soft light has grown
on our new house, on this, our home.
EARLY ONE MORNING
Now it is dawn and the new sun
tears through the sinews of night,
as the dissolving grey heralds the day,
where waves of the sea sparkle bright.
On the horizon, as the sun is rising,
a pale ship emerges, ghost-like,
on a sea, so serene, as if in a dream,
the deep silence concealing its might.
On the soft sands there a man stands,
a lone silhouette now come into sight;
and from sea to sky a seagull flies,
a lonesome cry of white.
Shadows swirl in an unreal world,
bathed in an emphatic light.
Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.
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