Sloe magic

Yesterday I thought I might find a poem for Paul Milataru’s magical photograph. A sonnet of sorts.

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Quiet, except for the clamour in my head,

the chirruping of sharp-beaked nagging

that competes with oriole music.

 

Still, except for the restless waves of anxiety, mimicking

the gentle swaying of boughs, and the clouds that drift

at a relentless pace across the unforgiving sky.

 

Peace, except in the world beyond the hedge, in almost

every heart, and the weight pushes against these barriers

with the force of twisted nature.

 

How to fight the noise and listen to the music beneath,

to still the turbulent troubled air and let peace fall like

a sunset, a spring shower, a smile in the darkness?

 

When moonlight leads the way along the lane and the owls cry,

when sloes glow dark as midnight pearls, I see where secrets lie.

 

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

12 thoughts on “Sloe magic”

  1. No peace in the word beyond, we’ve got to take what we can get.
    That photo is exactly how the moon looked out my back window through the tree a few night ago. The branches moved in the wind and it danced too. (K)

    1. You’re right. When I hear people say there’s nothing we can do about poverty and distress because this world was always intended (by our all-loving God) to be a vale of tears; I want to do some serious slapping.
      The moon here is yellow at tree level—a real harvest moon.

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