By Mark Muller

Limping along, we wait for

winter’s somber skies -

its ill-tempered squalls -

to be done.

Sun emerges in

cheerful stagings

of diffused hope.

Sitting on this soft bed

of fallen leaves

in a clearing of warm sun

is easy, and it appeases

harsh winter muddles -

rising and falling

on darkness -

and the old apartness.

Spring is turning daily

towards summer’s ease -

and long crepuscular hours

of the souls’ sprightly powers.



Resident in Istanbul for the past twelve years, Mark Muller endeavours to understand existential conundrums in relation to  history, geography and migration/exile.