Paula Puddephatt's Page

Lime Trees

Summers consist of
peridot mornings,
and emerald afternoons.
The trees filter the sunlight -
so often saving me from
those headaches, which might have
mutated, evolved into migraines.

By autumn, the leaves have changed colour:
a poet's palette of
amber, copper,
gold, and red.

In winter, the trees are slender,
with a stark, grey-brown beauty:
looking fragile,
yet able to endure
the harsh frosts of the season.

And, throughout the seasons,
"they" plot.
They want
a concrete universe -
so they mark out their potential
victims, with orange spots.

The letters to local residents are headed:
"Implementation of
Environmental Improvements".

Yet, trees can bleed.
Scenes of carnage seal the deal.
They win; we lose.
So much wildlife, instantly evicted.

Fluorescent yellow workmen circle tree stumps,
inspecting their day's work -
before going for "a pint",
and home for tea.

Spring is cancelled.



Dolphins

Aerodynamic angels
Of the ocean,
Whose graceful motion
Entrances and enchants -

Your collective "spirit"
Swimming
With my own,
In sacred waters.



Transcending

Prayer perfumes the air.
Late into the night,
we are raising the rhythms
of spirituality.
We are weaving our intricate tapestry
of light -
dreams swirling
around in our brains,
and visions transcending
the "truths" that we once
thought we knew.



A Certain Stillness

At the very centre of our silence,
I listen to the orchestra of angels,
and a certain stillness seems to
enter, deep inside of me.