Gogyohka for summer morning

 

sun ripples

through flesh and bone

chasing memories of cold and damp

and the darkness

of a night of no moon

 

cool grass glistens

dew-full

and a chiff chaff

chiff-chaffs quietly

in the sleepy morning hedge

 

here

where the boundaries are green and leafy

and the stream runs lower as heat rises

we stand on the edge

of vertiginous summer

#writephoto: In the lap of the gods

Next WIP started and Sue Vincent has found a photo for her prompt to nudge it along.

Screenshot 2020-07-09 at 17.59.38

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.

Ecosia: an ethical search engine

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.

These days

 

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.

Poem in Visual Verse

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.

Haiku sequence for the thunder moon

For Frank Tassone’s Thunder Moon challenge.

 

serene—riding

in unclouded silence—

thunder moon

 

summer speaks

silver and gold with thunder

in the moon’s voice

 

thunderstorms

nights rocked with rain lit day-bright

behind clouds—the moon

 

night storm

among the billows

the moon glows

 

look—not fireflies

about the moon not stars

lightning flickers

He remembers home

chimpanzee-congo-painting-1_orig

 

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.

July 4th

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.

house and picnic table

picnic table

and we had our first pan bagnat of the year

pan bagnat

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.

Finbar 4 July

Trixie didn’t move from the chair she’s appropriated.

Trixie's chair

Ninnie got as far as the doormat.

Ninnie on doormat

It’s a good thing we don’t crave excitement.

Diamond days

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

 

you whisper

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.