Morning bird song…

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And my soul is blessed with morning bird song, the audible melody of life, my spirit awakens beneath blue skies of winter and white fluffy clouds of dreams, I have slept too long, I must put pen to paper and once again search my horizon for the hidden gems of beauty as the morning bird sings, somewhere upon this glorious earth.

Karen Hayward ©2016

The screaming gull.

In the early hours of darkness as the sun slowly ascended the gulls were screaming. Distant echoed warnings piercing the silence. Muted grey clouds licked the horizon hinted promises of humidity howled in the constant cries as they searched for scraps of left over food and dry land to rest that tired wings. Orange hues disperse the melancholic grey as sparrows sing and blue tits play. The haunting cries of gull a dying whisper as morning breaks. Climbing back into bed, nature’s symphony becomes the back drop of my dreams.
Karen Hayward ©2016

Silent melody.

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If the bird song fell silent for a moment as the sun reached his flames into the sky, what would I hear? Would I hear the soft flutter of butterfly wings, or the breeze whistling through the blades of grass? Perhaps the earth would hum a delicate background tune that echoes in the empty skies. Or maybe I would hear the soft ebbing of the tide as it caresses the shore, a distant loving embrace. If the world fell silent in these moments as day breaks would I hear my own thoughts as they linger on my skin, would I hear the universe whispering letters of love, would the sun speak of passion and the descending moon speak of wisdom? What would I hear if I could not hear the birds morning melody?

Karen Hayward ©2016

Translation in the echoes of time.

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I can still hear the four o’clock bird song whistling to my heart, telling me the secrets of my untrodden path.
I asked them, please sing slow,
for the language you are using I really do not know.
They whistled in return, a lullaby of truth,
and somehow I just knew,
I’d one day know their tune.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Singing to my soul.

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I open a window and sit huddled in front of it. The morning air is humid, freshly fallen rain adds a twist of freshness that travels across the beaks of birds in song. Beneath grey clouds I listen to the orchestra and wonder whether mother nature or the universe is their conductor. Heavy cars are sporadically spilling up the road, tires dragging through the puddles, engines disturbing the music. Then silence erupts but for the whistling lovers that sit up in the trees. Their song washes over me as the rain begins to fall cleansing the start of another day.

Karen Hayward ©2016