Two poems of the autumn season in Aotearoa New Zealand.
White frost on the lawn.
Bright sun shinning in a cloudless sky.
Many sparrows chattering in the mulch feeding the tree.
Little man-made noise intrudes on the scene.
A potted red geranium flowering brillantly is reflected in the conservatory glass.
Little birds dart across my line of vision.
Rainbows off the light-catcher play on the bedroom wall.
Remnants of a late summer rose, very pale pink, hangs in the still air.
The radiator silently heats my space.
Coffee is hot and strong.
God, who has created and is creating, is in this place.
All is well.
I woke to a quiet morning,
muted opal, pearl shining — the background for the amber gold
still lingering on the beech tree outside my bedroom window.
“It’s Autumn for both of us, my friend”,
I told it, as I rubbed cream on an arthritic knee,
stretched joints stiff from yesterday’s gardening,
and wondered how long those bright leaves would keep their hold.
Though I am old, the beech tree is much older.
Yet there are still green leaves right in its sheltered centre,
there are fluffy little bunches of grey-green lichen on some of its branches,
and, right at the bare tops of the tree,
brave new leaf buds already herald a Spring that is months away,
and — of course — there’s a tui singing in there somewhere!
Thank you for the slower pace and serenity of older years.
May my days shine with the life experience,
the humour, the wisdom, the compassion accumulated.
Strip from me attitudes and thinking which are better discarded.
May my green still be useful,
my loving offer brightness to those around me,
and my being provide nourishment for those in need.
When some activities are beyond me, remind me
that you are the sap within me that gives energy for new buddings.
And may there always be the music of gratefulness.