Good night, Terry Jones.
Painting by Kerfe.
dark wind
soft and warm as feathers
an owl calls
Category: Poetry
Winter winding
winter winds in shiny worms of water
lapping root and bare black branches
whines in windy window cracks
splits clay pots
seeds and dry leaves scattering
birds still wing
though singing is for spring
sun warming stone and shoots
lizards loiter bees bumble in stray rays
but night falls and fog crawls
draw down the blinds
hope seeps back into black water
on cold earth
struggling to blossom
Dawn
winter morning broken
no ice on water butts
to break
but wind from the east
sharp-toothed its wild gallop
The secret
A bit of formal rhythm and rhyme for the dverse prompt this evening.
Photo ©John Fielding / A Mountain Hare Leveret /
There is a tree where apples grow,
And in the bank a spring;
There is a wall where roses blow,
A hedge where blackbirds sing.
A secret in the tall grass lies,
So still you’d not look there,
To see the soft brown anxious eyes
Of spring’s first newborn hare.
Giving and taking
A butterfly cinquain for Colleen’s photo prompt.
Photo ©2019 Willow Willers
Displayed,
her promises,
her story offered in
open hands, bared, indelibly
printed.
His hands are an unwritten page,
secret. He smiles, reads, takes—
her story is
now his.
Year grown old
Cold sweeps,
weeps tears of frost,
lost among the grass.
In the dark, stars spoke,
broke their silent dance,
enhancing the night.
From pods, white furred,
bird shakes the seeds,
feeds fire-spark quick.
Thick mists curl,
furling, swirling, pearl bright
light of a year grown old.
