through flesh and bone
chasing memories of cold and damp
and the darkness
of a night of no moon
cool grass glistens
and a chiff chaff
in the sleepy morning hedge
where the boundaries are green and leafy
and the stream runs lower as heat rises
we stand on the edge
of vertiginous summer
Next WIP started and Sue Vincent has found a photo for her prompt to nudge it along.
She follows with her eyes the sinuous line that hugs the contours of the hill until it disappears out of sight, to fall to the valley beyond. There is a plain, rich and green and on the horizon the march of low hills, blue in the uncertain distance. At her back is the sea; she smells the salt in the wind, feels its buffeting. If she were to turn, she might still be able to see the sail of a small boat, know who sails it, even though he is too far away for her to distinguish any feature. If she were to turn, she might see, if it were not for the tears.
He has gone, looking for the one who will take her place, and all she can do is send him a kindly wind and hope he reaches his goal safely. She wonders if she made a mistake and this place will never be her home. Would she have been happier had she stayed a servant to a brute but in a world she knew and understood? She looks down across the valley the herds of fat cattle, the sheep on the hills. She feels the peace that comes from plenty, from a land wide enough for all, fruitful and prosperous. There is song here and poetry and the children grow straight and tall. She was not wrong to come here. She was just wrong in choosing Caibhán.
She sighs and carries on the path. Beyond the bend she will be able to see the houses, the strangely comforting round houses that echo the sun and moon, the ripples made by raindrops in a pool. She will watch the children running, round and round in their noisy games, the dogs following, and the life of the settlement revolving round and round the seasons, birth, death and the successions of joys and sorrows. She will line her own round nest with comforts against unhappiness and hope in what the turning seasons will bring. One day, perhaps she will become a gull and fly round and round with no more cares than the choice of a fish.
This is an unabashed plug for Ecosia. I use Ecosia as my search engine. It was my youngest daughter who told me about it. Using it means not only NOT using Google, it means planting trees. Today Ecosia hit the 100 million trees planted mark. Here’s a short video about the work they do.
To join in and help, all you have to do is use it. Clicking on ads helps even more. You don’t have to buy anything, just click and another tree is planted. I can’t see any reason not to install this search engine unless you are really keen on giving your personal details to Google so they can make money out of you.
too hot to sing for some
so warblers fill the silence
with a silver trickle
cool as stream water
vibrating with the cries of fractious crows
not too hot to chase
the drifting buzzard
and golden as melting butter
life trills in the shade
sweet and low
It should be enough the sun
the languid whistling of the birds
heat rising from baked earth and green shimmer
enough to rise with the heat
on birdwings lifting languid and serene in the sun
from green earth
they should be green with birdsong
these hot days dusty
with harvest motes floating golden birdwings
there should be joy after rain shafts
slanting steely cold
from lowering skies
when we listened to the rattle of hail
the splash of torrents
and a wind raging from the east
it should be enough the sun
the unconscious beauty of the warbler’s song
the ripple of heat breeze and leaf hiss
but these days it is not enough
to lift the heavy wings
the flutter leaden with rain
and all the little sorrows
sing soft and low.
My poem, No justice is in Visual Verse today. You can read it here
or better still, start at the beginning of the issue and read all the entries so far. The title page is here.
The Grenfell Tower fire was a terrible tragedy, but you have to wonder if it would have happened if the residents had not been who they were. The BBC list of names and faces is revealing of the social makeup of the building.
Khadija Saye was a young talented artist, one of the 72 men, women and children who died because they were not wealthy enough for their safety to have been considered important.
For Frank Tassone’s Thunder Moon challenge.
in unclouded silence—
silver and gold with thunder
in the moon’s voice
nights rocked with rain lit day-bright
behind clouds—the moon
among the billows
the moon glows
about the moon not stars
The hand that shapes the picture
holds a world in brush-stroked paint,
a glimpse of ghosted past, no future
in the black, the white, all swept away
so much debris in an ocean blue,
swallowed by the beast of distance,
and in the calm deeps of eyes,
so like yours and mine, despair.
He sees further, deeper far than we,
remembers things we never knew,
and in the mute, paint-laden brush,
a small life, sings its painted song
a life defined in an alien medium
by the unhealable pangs of loss.
It’s our wedding anniversary today and the weather is finally starting to settle down. We took a picnic out, all the way to… the plum tree.
and we had our first pan bagnat of the year
Finbar was tied up just in case he decided to run off, but I think those days are over. He’s getting very sensible in his old age.
Trixie didn’t move from the chair she’s appropriated.
Ninnie got as far as the doormat.
It’s a good thing we don’t crave excitement.
The Oracle sent me anniversary wishes. Not the diamond one yet, but our wedding anniversary nonetheless. Happy us 🙂
This diamond day glitters with new sun
exploding in dew drops
to the chanting of the birds
dreams dreamed by moonlight
love in the rain
and songs in the shadows
swell like storms of joy
come with me the ship is waiting
sailing through nights and days
(like Mad Max)
fast and blue with light and life
yet no rocks loom to rip and tear
only the majestic sun
that plays on moving water
with silver tongue.