Daily poem: Cherita 21

 

House on the hill

 

waits for the night

then the dawn

 

Nothing changes

except that the cracks

grow a little wider.

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Mist

For the dverse prompt, a drinking song

1024px-Muckish

Time flies,

flickers on the butterfly wings

of a dream drunk on nectar,

dies in a wine-dark ocean of myth,

founders on the green hills of the past,

sinks into the honey-sweet song of the pipes.

Penguins

Talking to Carol Forrester yesterday, jogged a childhood memory that I remember amused and appalled me when I was six. Because she suggested it, I’ve made it into a haibun for the dverse prompt.

It was a ritual. Once a week, my baby sister would ‘do baking’ with Big Grandma. We had a Big and a Little Grandma, ‘Big’ being our interpretation of ‘Great’. Two of us children were in infant school, one at nursery school, and the youngest, too young for either, was looked after by Big Grandma when my mother went back to work. Little Grandma was still teaching and unavailable.

Friday was baking day, a day of pounding pastry with hands that had been digging in the garden, feeding Wells’ dog, or stroking Tiddles, Blackburns’ cat. We had Play Do at home, but Big Grandma was only equipped with old-fashioned toys like water, flour and wooden spoons. The ‘pastry cutter’ was a penguin, found on a beach somewhere, originally for making sand pies. My sister would spend hours making pastry snowmen, sunshines, and monsters, before flattening the sticky grey mass, riddled with cat hairs and carpet fluff, and grinding out an army of penguins with currants for eyes.

She always put them in the oven, Big Grandma, always saw it through to the end. But it was my poor father who was forced to eat at least one penguin when he picked my sister up at the end of the day.

 

Grey spring sky

colour of rain and puddles—

bright memories.

 

Tanka Tuesday: Haiku

For some reason (my ineptitude probably) last week’s cinquains for Colleen’s prompt had been stuck in the limbo WP has invented between the ‘Publish, but we’ll wait indefinitely while you make up you mind you really want to do this’ button and the ‘You asked for it—Publish’ button.

I’ll try to remember to push both buttons this week.

A haiku this time for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday prompt, not to use the words Breakthrough and Movement.

 

Spring sky stirred—rain falls

on stark budding boughs bursting

with white cloud blossom.

Haibun for a grey day

For the dverse prompt, a grey haibun.

The photo ©Olegivvit is lungwort for those interested. We have about half a hectare of it.

1024px-Lungwort-oliv

This winter has been sad, they say, the saddest in a long time, when the clouds have lowered on the hilltops and the mist has risen from the valley bottom to meet them. In between we have lived and worked, beetled in the grey half-light, and the nights have been thick and dark as sightless pits. Spring is coming, they say, but not yet. The hills are still crowned in dark cloud and the stream runs fast and loud through pale grey mist. I look about my feet for brightness, the tears in the ragged garment, and they are there, the daffodils and muscari, the kingcups and the colourful if drabbly named lungwort.

Look to the pale shoots and the delving roots of things, close to the ground beneath the rain-dark trunks, and you will see spring coming.

Spring rain glitters

polished pewter

a song thrush drinks.