Dawn spreads gold
on the meadow, waking to
birdsong and dew.
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Category: Uncategorized
All there is
For Jilly’s days of unreason challenge. I remember this quote from last year but if I wrote a poem for it, I can’t find it.
“Saw a poem float by just beneath the surface ” from Songs of Unreason
Water weed tangle,
dead wood fallen,
celandine and kingcup bound,
this stream runs,
babbling its stories that heron drinks
and marten paddles,
deer sip, and the great trees seep and soak.
I dip my hand and listen
to the drip of bright drops,
the falling song of the thrush,
the breeze in the poplar leaves,
and know this has to be enough.
Daily poem: Lune 24
Walking at evening
where bats flit owls call—
kind of peace.
Said the rabbit to the child
This odd and dark little poem came to me last night as I was taking Finbar for his final outing up and down the lane at 11pm. There was a bit of a moon, the stars, and it was still light on the western horizon. There in never any traffic on this lane at night. We get maybe half a dozen cars go past all day. Just the neighbours.
I like walking at night when it’s still light enough to see. There are rabbits and hares, sometimes martens, deer and fox. And lots of owls. It’s their place, not ours. I keep Finbar on his lead so he doesn’t disturb them. It isn’t wilderness, just small holdings and woodland, but it doesn’t belong to people, no matter what they say, and however close they shave their lawns.
Jilly’s Jim Harrison quote for the days of unreason challenge seems quite appropriate.
“His mind’s all black thickets and blood” from Songs of Unreason
It must be hard to be
a rabbit, said the child,
to hide beneath the hedge the day
for fear of man and running dog,
the shadow of the hawk,
to tremble night time at the sound
of hunting owl, the moonlit fox.
Rabbit listened sadly,
wept for the gentle child,
said, Life is hard for timid folk,
but little one, you’ll find
that unlike you, we’ve naught to fear
from our own kin and kind.
Tongue of black swans
I started on a magnet poem earlier, but the Oracle wiped it clean. This is the second attempt, which seems to have been approved.
Beat this languid life
into a petalled rose,
storm still lake water
with shadow music,
the whispered tongue
of black swans.
Daily poem: Lune 23
Waiting to mow
for nests, forms to empty,
seed to set.
Choice, what choice?
Another Jim Harrison prompt for Jilly’s days of unreason challenge that rubs my fur up the wrong way. It’s easily done, you might say.
“The world that used to nurse us
now keeps shouting insane instructions.
That’s why I ran to the woods.”
~ Jim Harrison from Songs of Unreason
This world gives us
no nursing, no cradling,
just birth, death,
and in between is life.
That’s all we get,
no running no hiding,
the opt out is for the rich,
the privileged few.
Not for you and I,
the fox in the ploughed field,
the thrush in the shrinking hedge.
