by Phil Kemp   INTIMATIONS OF AUTUMNSunlight fading, a chill wind drives away
last of the day’s heat; in the forest
I walk through, the turning of green to red
is my life,
darkening in the dusk.I am not where I was,
not what I had been in summer.In the cool of evening
a quarter moon rises to
claim the night-coming sky.
All my resolutions 
born in summer, left undone.In the night, the wind changed its direction
to the north; I woke, and the trees were bare.  SOPHIA AT MY WINDOWWith bowed head, upon
the lower branch, Wisdom stares
at the window. I wonderif I’m worthy of her presence.
She awes me.
I want her to speak.Her servant, I’ll listen. Sophia,
you survey what moves.
What do you see in my heart?we lock glazes and then I blink.
Only an empty tree remains.
I’ll remember her in darkness.   FOURI flew home from my father’s funeral.Four days later a car knocked
me down at an intersection.Four months recovery
at home.Four months solitude
and silenceFour years later, I have planted
many verdant trees.   BURIEDiI piled
earth onto my father,
stepped back; my
duty done, and took my place with
the mourners.I loosed his boat
into unknown seas,returned afterwards to an empty
house as the sun set
over the stones of
our ancestors.iiWhen I was a boy my
father brought me a model train
for my birthday. He had loved to
play with a model railway when he was
a boy; I supposed it was the little
universe he could control
when all around was the chaos of the war.I had no interest in moving
steam trains around a track,
except to hear them crash at  high speed
and leave the safety of the rails.I would rather follow the
solitary path along the river
behind our house that led
to  the once-running railway
now deserted. Its
tracks were removed,
their indentations pressed into the
open fields.Before his death three years
of silence ruled. He
might have forgotten me.I had nothing to say
to him the day
I left him weeping
at Gillingham station.   ARTHUR’S SEATWhat I write comes
from the Sundays
when I walked on the
higher road to
wind-ruffled Dunsapie Loch
and ascended on the well-worn
grass to the
summit of Arthur’s Seat.From this extinct volcano
on a sunny day in May
My view encompasses Edinburgh’s whole,
out to the Forth bridges, across Fife’s kingdom
to Highland peaks; then
east  to Bass Rock
southward to Pentlands and Moorfoots. A whole world below.
A whisper of words
elevates me to this place.   About the Author:Phil Kemp was born in London in 1960. He received his M.A. (Hons) in History from the University of Edinburgh and his Postgraduate Diploma in Librarianship from the College of Librarianship Wales (now part of the University of Wales) in Aberystwyth. In 2001, Phil relocated to Iowa City, Iowa, where he resides with his wife.Phil’s poem River was published for Iowa City’s Poetry in Public contest in 2017. He is the author of two unpublished novels, set in the UK, spanning periods from the sixteenth century to the present day. Phil is currently a member of the Triptychs, a poetry workshop in Iowa City facilitated by Jeanette Miller, author of Unscheduled Flights published by Adelaide Press earlier this year.