Autumn

The leaves they leave their branches,
They fall to pave our paths.
The breeze it whispers secrets,
The dead trees fail to laugh.

Some huddle in their small piles,
The outcasts twist away.
The breeze it whispers secrets,
The dead trees stoop and sway.

Soon they settle to rot in peace,
Some with others and some alone.
The breeze it whispers secrets,
The dead trees stand stripped to wooden bone

If I

If I should lie on mornings dew,
And cry the blood I’ve spilt for you,
And die the deaths I’ve killed for you,
Would you grant me peace?

If I should scythe a field of corn,
And bare the looks that are filled with scorn,
And sing songs of doom in early morn,
Would you grant me peace?

If I should choose another life,
And make my mark without a knife,
And strip my heart of pain and strife,
Would you grant me peace?

If I should find a priest still true,
And carve a cross of wood for you,
And wear a crown of thorns for you,
Would you grant me peace?

If I should find the Promised Land,
And scorch my feet on burning sands,
And free my soul with tight clasped hands,
Would you grant me peace?

If I commit to the valley of death,
And with my very last whisper, in still bated breath,
Give all that I have till I’ve nothing left,
Would you grant me peace?

Rendered to Nothing

My pages leaked whispers,
Like her cries in the breeze,
Reflecting our worries,
In oil tinged ice streams.

My words, my ambitions,
My aim to surpass.
I was rendered to nothing
By cold words from the past.

We solemnly feasted
On unleavened bread,
The wine it kept flowing
Till the sight left my head.

I knew it was over,
I knew we were doomed,
When the cold seat beside me
Was warmed from across the dark room.

I asked her for seconds,
She served me contempt,
For being so patient –
My last ditch attempt.

Her unnerving beauty,
It made me feel ill,
The paranoid retching
Left in loves long lost will.

But I waited, I hoped,
I stayed by her side,
Till her sullen damp eyes
Washed away with grief's tide.

Now I no longer see things,
In a warm simple way,
Birth is white and death is black
And in between is grey.

All poems by Tomas Bird, Bard of Fife.