Wednesday, 3 November 2010

Autumn Morning by the St. Croix

Silver birches
stand watch alone
like ermine-clad nobles

As morning’s brilliant orb
turns the river to liquid gold,
and frosted paths shimmer with fallen jewels
of red, orange, yellow.

Surely, here,
there is enough beauty to dazzle,
and riches enough
to buy our allegiance;

Yet no gaudy show of power
ever forces knee or heart.

Beauty whispers
her call.

We may pass her by,
or trample her treasures underfoot.

We may throw her a brief, admiring glance.

stopping to stare
long enough,
our eyes may be opened to glory,
our ears to wisdom,
and our hearts to love.

And, while morning’s golden mist
swirls with echoes
of one final far-off season’s change
- of gilt city, glassy sea and great white throne -
and as the river offers
its glistening Holy Cross for royal sceptre

So, showered with autumn’s confetti,
may our kneeling words be:
“Beloved, I am yours.
With my affection I crown you.”

And, rising,
we may take with us
- sign and token
gift and promise -
one ruby-red leaf
with icy diamonds encircled.

Rachael Barham, Friday 30th October 2009,
St. Stephen, New Brunswick.

(a poem I wrote last year and that comes back to me as the season offers itself to us again)


  1. Oh Rachael! Oh I love this poem! I love how you are one who can quietly revel in glory one morning, stopping by and not brushing past prosaic brilliance. I really, truly, love this poem.

  2. THANK YOU, lovely Karis! Yes, poetry about the prosaic!
    "Beauty whispers
    her call"


  3. Gorgeous and inspiring, just as you are, my friend!

  4. I like how you wrote this poem last year, because that means I was experiencing the same beauty that you were writing about. I am missing it now, but that doesn't negate that I did have it for a while.