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The Fall

When blackberries darken by the wall
and on the moors the wild birds call,
all passions die and pleasure pall
in this the Fall.

When earth mud lies like wrinkled skin
and whirling leaves bring outside in,
love stands stripped so bare and thin
in this the Fall

Eve first this apple tasted
and Eden's flowering beauty wasted,
then all the world was inundated
in this the Fall.
 
 

Small Things

I only write small things,
that fly like doves
on velvet wings
and murmur low.
That only flow
where lost thoughts go,
these things I know,
and so,
I only write small things.
 
 

                                     Joyce  Harrington
 

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