We can’t move for boxes now. I’ve packed up most of the kitchen utensils so I don’t know how we’re going to eat over the next few days. Still washing clothes, towels and bad linen and hoping it will all be dry enough to pack.
Sod the packing. A poem for the dverse prompt about metaphor. I have a feeling I always do this, so I’m maybe missing the point. Here it is anyway.
And could I make this more than it is,
the vibrant light of morning,
rising to where the clouds cluster in gaudy flocks,
and the falling evening ocean,
bathing grass in pink and gold,
flecked with roistering homing birds?
Nothing I can say or do will change the quality of light,
the sky, a basking sea lit by coral stars its deep dark bed,
the trees that wave wild unkempt hair in the wind,
and in the dappling shadows,
the rust red, white scut flash of hart and hare.
You will always be the anchor in this wild sea,
the mirror, delicate as the clean washed strand,
and make me more than I could ever be alone.
A story break. I didn’t have time to do Sue Vincent’s photo prompt last week or was it the week before? But it’s a good picture, so I’ve had a go now.
Most people peered through the round hole and saw the fields at the other side of the rock, the grass rippling and the far trees swaying in the breeze. But some people saw something else. Some people are gifted with the sight, or perhaps cursed is the better word. A few recognize this gift from an early age and stay away from the places that show them the otherworld. Most only realize when it it is too late.
He had no idea that he was anything but a very ordinary man, living a very ordinary life. True, he loved walking and running and would often sleep out beneath the stars with only a sleeping bag and his dog for company. He was never happier than when he was up in the hills with only the sound of the larks and the wind in the trees. Often, his running took him up to Balor’s Eye, and he would climb to the top of the rock and look down on three counties at once.
If he had a foreboding, he ignored it. If he was drawn to Balor’s Eye at the summer solstice, he did nothing to fight it. As the sun sank to the rim of the hills on that longest day, as its long rays fell through the round hole that was called Balor’s eye, he peered through, as hundreds, perhaps thousands had done before him, and he saw a bloody battlefield.
There were no slanting golden rays, but an ocean of red blood and fire. There were no larks singing, but men screaming. He tried to back away, but a face in the anonymous heaving, bleeding crowd turned and a voice called his name. His name?
The voice called from two thousand years away, yet he heard it clear, and he knew it for his own. His knuckles clutched the rim of the eye, but something stronger than the familiarity and ordinariness of the peaceful fields gripped him. The otherworld was calling its own; and he had a part to play.
Lugh! Come quick!
He was an ordinary man with the heavy muscles of an athlete, and the walking stick in his hand was a long spear. With a gasp, that was both regret and excitement, he leapt through the round hole, the eye of the giant Balor that looked out onto the otherworld, and the red battle enveloped him in flames and blood.
Before the eye could find him, he span about and cast the spear, the long spear no other man could wield, and it passed through Balor’s eye. The rock, the giant, the mass of man and mountain roared one last curse, belched one last gout of flame, and fell dead. Lugh, the extraordinary man was carried, a hero from the red field. He cast a last, puzzled glance back at the tumble of smoking rock, but already the memory of the peaceful, lark-singing field was fading.
A morning of enforced idleness. Too many people coming round to fill boxes. The usual Indian summer that starts at the beginning of September and lasts well into October just hasn’t materialised. Rain, rain, rain is all we get.
This rather miserable poem is for the Secret Keeper’s prompt. Written in French with English adaptation.
SAD | WIND | HUG | MOOD | TAKE
Triste, ce temps, ce ciel de traîne d’un gris profond,
Soumis les arbres embracés par ce vent du nord,
Qui se tortillent en murmurant des mots de plainte.
Je laisse mes doigts effleurent la peau si lisse de soie liquide,
De mon lac perdu parmi les bâtiments indifférents,
Et le vent emporte ces larmes, ces rêves mal dessinés,
Dans un ciel de traîne, pleurer sur le dos solide de l’océan.
Sad, this changing sky of cloudy grey,
The trees that bend beneath the north wind’s grasp,
And murmur, as they bow, words of complaint.
My fingers trace the skin of liquid silk,
Of my lake lost among uncaring crowds,
Snatched by the wind, tears and unformed dreams
Fall from a changing sky onto the sea’s broad back.
We’re getting there. Another poem then a couple more boxes before bed. This one is for the dverse prompt, rain and its homonyms. And upbeat. Don’t ask me what it’s about—it’s upbeat, that’s all. If I had time, I’d find a blue horse painting to go with it.
It’s raining stars—
though we see only steel-grey water—
and the great sky horses plough their heavy wings
through torrents of molten fire,
and shake their manes at the dog star.
No bridle, no reins to guide and arrest,
no saddle and spurs to tame the beast,
the wild hunt with no hunters,
the race with no winner, no prize.
They hear only the clash of clouds,
dance among piercing spears of lightning
and the rain,
laughing, horse-splashing rivers,
that the last roses catch and dangle,
in the morning sun.
For Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday.
The voice of the stream
is the wind’s voice and the sky’s,
blackbird’s summer song.
I watch reflected clouds pass
in the river’s changing face.