The morning after

This was the second poem the Oracle gave me yesterday. I didn’t get around to posting it, but having read the poems of my sister witches, I will. Once again, Odilon Redon provides an appropriate accompaniment.

The morning after

The air thrills
with a thousand million whispers
drifting from a shining sky,
and all the blood
is swept away in their singing.

Strings play, and tongues follow
the weft of the notes.
Forest leaves murmur
and drip their morning dew
of moon-memories night-scented.

Roses nod their faces
cupped to hold the light,
and the roar and the heat
of man’s barbarity
sinks into the sepulchre
of the holy vengeful earth.

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.

13 thoughts on “The morning after”

      1. As a semi retired wizard I draw comfort from old sayings – “The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters.” …
        “The point of modernity is to live a life without illusions while not becoming disillusioned” – Antonio Gramsci – probably written from his political prison cell.

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