Musing Unsaid

The hand of God

What hand set our blue world spinning on it's tilted axis?
And made the moon in such a way,
 that it would eclipse and show a jewel by day?
Of my endeavours I cannot compare a single task,
 and is it true that same hand did fashion me a mind to ask?
After years revolve,
 when like me these questions fade, and I am old,
 will that same hand in death I hold?

Old Brown and The Weather.

The river runs deep through many parts,
One lower whole from numerous highers starts,
Its story is a long one and its' meaning is a strong one,
the moral being tell it well and never tell the wrong one.

Well told, drops that from the eyes begin,
whose paths might lead from cheek to chin,
a feeling brought from them within,
will fall and feed the flow below.

Their meaning spent now lost beneath,
Another source may never hold,
Trails dried up and tales forgot,
Should not the story more be told.

A soul these silent tears refill,
Their pathways joined and old tracks broken,
While the babblings of the brook
Become the reasons for them softly spoken.

The reservoir my heart contains,
If sluiced would swell the current strong,
When empty, rain from mists that form
Will help to wash the stream along.

In key my melody is wrong,
Yet still I wish to sing with throng,
No care in world, a sweet duet,
In harmony with Summer's song,

To flirt a twirl, as Old Brown flicks
A swirling comment from his tale,
As if to ask, in solemn tone,
Why he is stuck in liquid dale,

Meandering, and forced bereft
To navigate this lonely cleft,
Of female fold and mountain male,
'tween handsome hill and tempting vale.

The changing air as fast this night
Would surely sway a Hawk in flight,
A chance maybe to catch a Fly,
I may procure a lucky bite,

The Storm as mighty as it is,
Few fishermen would risk its plight,
I sense it come, Thor sounds a clap,
He'll cast his net this very night.

Beneath the level's skin in stillness,
Old Browns' empty belly rumbled,
Leaves were scattering above,
Large twigs flew and branches tumbled,

About the panick-stricken herd,
Young Bucks kicked in haste and stumbled,
Other members slipped and slid,
And on the banks for footing fumbled.

The howling wind, like lonesome Wolf
Could scare the bravest of the Deer,
But kept in Loch and trapped in wier,
No fork would spear Brown's shallow fear,

A legless Stag, says he, gains time to feed
When chance denies the sturdy Steer.
His practiced strike, he knew full well,
and Lo, approaching, Mjolnir.

No blow could shake his steady nerve,
Nor lightening strike reveal his lair,
Whilst dark and bubbling build of cloud,
No peer to challenge Him would dare.

"Deity shall beat me not! -
'a spell' so life to me endears...
So too, gives title, fort and tools,
That I may reign o'er land for years."

"Then break this shell",
He uttered meekly,
Old Brown being no magician.
"Lord above, with your permission,
I'd need to ease my souls attrition."

The book of time his dear plea heard
Its markings read from whence were written,
Records made of every turn,
Of saddest day and times when smitten,

With rising tide and Weather weeping,
Water splashed in final flail,
Thunder from the Heavens woken
Answered to a flash of scale,

Caught on wave with weary roll,
His old tails' tiredness more than doubled,
The galeing front now having passed,
And Old Brown too, no longer troubled.

By the time my spirit flies,
My body left between two states,
My heart will have apologised
For all of my unjust mistakes.

On lifes' journey much I tasted,
Oft' I took a welcome sip,
Shot the rapid to the pool
And swam through folded dark green lip,

Above my head were lovers boating,
Blossom breeze and Sea birds floating,
When I rise no more to sink,
I'll learn to swim where lovers think,

In all the places left in wake
Where Angels sailed on mirrored lake,
Tuning natures' bow we'll sing,
Eumenides and Seraphim.

A vast black cavern in Old's vision,
Opened out into the sky,
Shocked Old Brown did not have time
Or sense to reason how or why.

It's hugeness lit with starry map
Of Constellations bright and bold,
A like sight Brown had never seen,
Nor neither did before behold,

His coloured name, now Fawn was young,
It's history not yet been told,
A fin or gill he could not feel,
Her temperature not hot nor cold.

Set in motion to a tune
The orchestra now did revolve
And turning slowly like a wheel
The stars like fish, in shapes were shoaled.

Wakeing twixt found startled self,
In valley lush with fallow field,
In night air standing, glancing up,
Alive! and by its Mother preened.

Coat with spots like stars reminding,
Magically, her heir serene,
Of skies she'd watched when she'd been young
With half blue moon through veil unseen.

Reflecting now, on a branching past,
Under old tree's canopy,
A mother, of her life, at end,
What ever would become of She?

To sky of foal she wished if doe,
For darkened pools in deep brown eyes,
For antlers tall, and proud if Stag
Dramatic scenes to realise.

Bowing head to drink with grace,
She in the water dreamt a face,
Thinking that a fish, like deer,
Needs water to survive in here,

In mind again,