Songwriter, photographer, countryman, writer and therapist. Nature’s ally, working to leave the world a better place. Visit brianboothby.co.uk for acclaimed album ‘Firegazing’, poetry and many other vital details.
These days, I search
the clean light upon the water
and the deep space under the trees . . . . . . . . . . .
But nothing will be right, ‘til they come
Already buds line the twigs,
hedges twitch with life,
and winter flies north,
but winter won’t be gone, ‘til they come
And there’s so much to do
clearing out the old, channelling the new . . . . . . .
old engines started and oiled,
none of it worthwhile, if they don’t come
These days I search . . . . . . . .
Look there . . . . . . .in the clean light over the water
through that deep space under the trees,
those flickering perfect arrows of blue
suddenly unlock summer’s flood . . . . . . . . . . . .
Swallows are here
These days I watch
the clean light over the water
the deep space under the trees
Swallows are here.
Swallow Song (song lyric from Firegazing) © Brian Boothby
Sun to Shore © Brian Boothby January © Brian Boothby February © Brian Boothby March © Brian Boothby April © Brian Boothby May © Brian Boothby June © Brian Boothby July © Brian Boothby August © Brian Boothby September © Brian Boothby October © Brian Boothby November © Brian Boothby December © Brian Boothby
Fire as lightlure, sparkspinning shadowdancer,
.......... step-light, eye-bright, knitting souls to bones,
holding our dreams for safe-keeping.
Fire as solar heart, radiant orphan, starsibling,
.......... double-edged sword, driver of drought and scald,
rainbow, aurora, renewal and ruin.
Fire as pot-baker, charcoal-maker, oven, still, welder and smelter,
........... brightmetal midwife, forge-focus, torch and crucible,
fusion of To Be and Done.
Fire in the belly, spirit whipcrack, ember of genius,
........... cutloose cup of daring, leap of love,
arcing out of time,
unleashing soul from bone
Album (from Firegazing) © Brian Boothby 2016
It could be missed,
Just for want of an outstretched hand,
Separate death on every island
Because no-one dared the sea.
But from such a scattering, here's a thing:
A navajo frame, threads of unsung mystics;
There, aborigine weft, tibetan warp;
In us all, colour and strength,
Spirit and science.
From every island hands dare the sea,
A new tribe is weaving
To warm mother earth.
It can be done.
It could be missed.
It could be missed © Brian Boothby
the deep faraway,
clean the palate on the moist and smell of far-off snow.
Gentle the eyes on moss-top autumn trees
and whistle in the winterbird from the patchwork stars.
through the veils of living,
deadline tangle, shoulds and must-haves
from whatever dulls and disenchants.
Whispering like a spinning wheel,
threading one year to the next
aspen a-shimmer through the deep soft faraway;
weaving through the whistling constellations;
through the veil and silk of snow
and also .......... bright in the being,
Right here, right now.
Samhainstory © Brian Boothby