Alexander Averin

Wednesday, 16 November 2011



Where thou art, that is home
Emily Dickinson


Stop. Along this path, in phrases of light

trees sing their leaves.  No Midas touch

has turned the wood to gold this year

when you pass by, suddenly sad, straining

to remember something you're sure you knew

Listening.  The words you have for things die

in your heart, but grasses are plainsong

patiently chanting the circles you cannot repeat

or understand.  This is your homeland,

Lost One, Stranger who speaks with tears.

It is almost impossible to be here and yet

you kneel, no-one's child, absolved by the sun

through the branches of a wood, distantly

the evening bell reminding you, Home, Home

Home, and the stone in your palm telling the time.

Carol Anne Duffy


Dave King said...

Rich pickings in plenty here on your blog: poems and paintings. A good place to come.

Elizabeth said...

I echo Dave's sentiments exactly.
This has been a spectacularly lovely autumn here in the States.
Leaves falling rapidly now--awfully late in the season.
Crunch crunch underfoot.

Love the new (?) header.

Tracy Golightly-Garcia said...

Hello Cait

I will have to second dave's words. You have a way with sharing your poems and what beautiful paintings you share with your readers.

I truly appreciated your kind words on my blog. Please do come back~~my book give away, I hope will be posted Thursday or Firday.

Take Care

Tracy :)

Friko said...

I am so glad she was made poet laureate.

Pamela Terry and Edward said...

So beautiful.
And the painting.... Loch Coruisk?

David said...

Really magnificent. The word "home" has such forest cathedral resonance, and you've mined it wonderfully here. Amen to Emily, and to this welcome to every prodigal. - Brendan

JeannetteLS said...

Moving choices for us, Cait. Well, there is Dave again, saying it all. Thanks for commenting on my blog--otherwise I might not have landed here!