The Sun and Magic
Two poems by Joan Adams Burchell (both copyright)
I wonder if the sun is a giant kettle,
boiling colours all day,
And sunsets are colours, spilling at will,
each day in a different way?
A pretty time on a winter's day
is when nature's palette spills;
When shadows fall on the crusted snow
and the sun sinks low in the hills.
It doesn't go without leaving a gift -
its painting for the day;
Melon, mauve and raspberry make
the mixture for today.
A ball of fiery, passionate-orange
at only half-past three,
Now leaves behind a treasured mix
that never again we may see.
The Magic of the Sun
When the sun shines on the fields of snow
and the ice upon the tree,
A gleaming crystalline palace
meets the eye and captures me.
I allow myself to enter in,
drawn by the dazzling view;
My heart is touched with a diamond wand
and suddenly all is new.
Before my eyes, the winter day
transforms to an image of spring,
When the river dances in the sun,
bringing brilliance to everything.
The beauty is etched upon my mind
by nature's famous sculptor,
The happy host of the sky - the sun -
and a most-magical captor.