Fallen leaves toll for the life that's gone

Autumn Passion Bright autumn Christ, The silver birch, The bell-bird's call, The vibrant light, The glory through The pain. Sharp autumn Christ The fallen leaves, The slanting sun, The hint of frost, Toll for the life That's gone. Dark autumn Christ The broken branch, The weeping tree, The whole sad Earth gasps Piteously. High autumn Christ The teacher gagged, The friend betrayed, The healer hung, The saviour Torn. Rich autumn Christ The hill is climbed, The hate disarmed, The fear is gone, The battle Won. Sweet autumn Christ, The rose-red blood, The rowan tree, God's heaven aflame In love For me.

Light Oriole, fanned shafts of light, Arrows receding hills. Mists gather, caressing gaunt Gullies, trees, the razored ridge. Radiance, yes, but curiously subdued, Glowering, though not in anger, Lighting and shadowing Cloaking. while disclosing. Indubitably, the day's done in, The sun beyond recall, sunk down. So why no litany of grief No tolling shipwreck bell? Oriole, harvest, time to sleep. No regrets, nor remorse, Deep draught of breath replete, This endless inch of time complete. The Language of the Trees the manukas heaved a sigh as the old guy in trainers bestrode the black tarmac; gave me a baleful eye; waters gleamed in Blueskin Bay we've yet to learn the language of the trees, in patient gesture bowed, rooted in time and place, fringing our world poplars shoot straight up ram rod parade ground stiff until, quite near the top, they flex, wave, swing, and susurrate while cabbage trees (what a misnomer!) hint at a past in hiding, skeletonic, ominous, semaphore contempt for fence and field. residual bush clings close, totara and rimu court the sky, no lofty towers, though, no tidy lines, no incandescent show, no fling of hubris. we taste the self-same sun and rain, glue ears and glaikit eyes poor tools to decipher as soil and time erode such subtle texts