Black the day


Black the day of damp and squally rain
though the grass sea is still
and only the trees complain
of creaking joints

and about the house
a constant twitter of scavengers
bright-winged bright-tongued darting
from rose hips to the sad-leafed hornbeam.

Yet though the bird-mist colours
a wreath of red-blooded feathered life
black is still the cloud leaking its bellied rain
into the furrows

and the world sighs
between the loss of the sun
and the birthing of unseen roots.

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.

24 thoughts on “Black the day”

      1. No. There’s a sort of corridor that runs the length of the house and sometime in the 1980s they people who loved here before us had one end of it hived off with a shower and a washbasin in it. There’s no heating in it and it’s pretty uninviting even in summer. It needs nerve to shower in there. Husband filled in the vertical crack that you could see daylight through but it’s still freezing.

      2. It sounds pretty awful. And you have a toilet inside somewhere, I hope? I’d have a hard time with no proper shower or oven–even with your beautiful scenery. I like my comfort. ๐Ÿ˜€

      3. Yes, there’s a toilet, next to the shower room. We thought when we moved here that we’d be able to do the work to make it comfortable, but there’s everything to do, electricity, plumbing, insulation, floor, ceiling, kitchen, bathroom, windows, septic tank, the list is endless. It would just cost too much. The house is really just a shell, a glorified barn. Lovely in summer…

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