Vernon Wade

Last Night

We turned the corner and the summer day was gone.
Clouds hung round the mountain like grey bags of water.
The air was sticky with warm, damp expectation,
waiting for lightning to rip those clouds asunder
and let the water pour out.
The setting sun shone from beneath the clouds
lighting up the mountain and the wet, pregnant air
over the green forested slopes to the East.
The air itself was glowing yellow, then orange.
A rainbow, bright as neon, descended into the trees
lightning cracked, searing white,
slashing and tearing the clouds
finally releasing the water from the sky
and dumping it in torrents
on the ground.


Displaying FlairpenSunset.jpg

Winter Solstice

Tattered clouds
across the sky luna flees
the stalking lion

The Mystery

The clouds are gone. Bright stars wink, sprinkled across the black sky. I
close my eyes to meditate, breathing, but the stars call to me. As I open
my eyes a shooting star burns across the southern horizon. I give up on
the breathing exercises and stare into the night. There is something
inspiring about these cold, brilliant points of light, far away, in deep
space. Silently they whisper stories to me I can't hear and don't
understand, tales that began and ended a millennium ago. Today will start
without the calmness of meditation, but with a primal touch in the depth
of my soul. An unnamed stirring, a tickle, a dream fading just out of
reach, a memory on the tip of my tongue, then gone. A mystery. The

Brittle Bright

Very early morning, the sky like back lit plate glass.
If a bird hit it just right it might shatter
into glittering shards of yellow, orange, blue and pink,
revealing the infinite beyond.

Displaying Clack1.jpgVernon Wade was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and still lives in the shadow of Mt. Hood, near the small town where he grew up. When he looks at the sky he is drawn into flights of fancy, when he stares at the
earth he is drawn beneath its surface. He is delighted to find the macrocosm and the microcosm equally mesmerising.


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