Ruth Calder Murphy Poems

You pick at my brain
like tapas...
Like tapestry,
embroidery,
...

Grief falls softly,
like a discarded leaf
tumbling to embers
and turning to ash.
...

The morning is clear,
riding in on the back of moonbeams
and surfing the crests of clouds.
Coffee in hand,
...

The park is awash with Autumn -
russet rustling like drizzle on crystal;
reds and golds falling in a blaze of Glory,
knowing the story always comes to this end
...