I still haven’t surfaced from antiquity. If anyone is going to understand why, it’s the Oracle.
Wind blows bare from pole to pole,
playing dark red, wine red, blood and poppy red
music with the bones of the trees,
and the moon sleeps in the sky,
rocked in a cradle of stars.
Time was we worshiped
the waxing and waning
of the tidal streams, the rising of milk,
sources and rushing watercourses,
the raw cutting shoots of spring.
We swim now in other seas,
where the sun shines relentlessly,
beauty is in the glitter of diamonds,
the wealth of bank vaults
and injections beneath the skin.
I watch the bud tips,
listen to the singing,
cling to these swaying branches,
good enough for white blossom
and the fluttering of blackbirds.
the spikes are stuck with froth
black branches clouded
with honey scent
and the brindled buzzing of bees
the plums are clad
in gull-soft drapery
as spring water
cut out against the blue
a railing of blossom
against the buffeting sea
the house sails
Today the weather is changing, from wet and mild and springlike, to a mini ice age. The wind last night veered to the north and blew the clouds away. Today is sunny and still warm, but it isn’t going to last. The meteo office refers to it as the Moscow-Paris. It’s going to get cold.
I walked around the homestead and tried to get some pics before it gets too cold to take gloves off outside. It’s difficult trying to hold a dog’s lead at the same time, hence the bit of camera shudder here and there.
The wild cherries are covered in blossom, especially far on is this very old one, even though the pic is a bit blurry.
The grass is full of Muscari, little grape hyacinths.
and kingcups, especially in the damp places.
Beneath the trees, husband has been clearing the brambles, but the lungwort seems undeterred.
We have one clump of wild daffodils. The neighbour has a field full of them.
Everywhere is running with water. The stream…
the overflow from next-door’s pond.
The next pics will be of the frost, if I dare go out in it.
Yesterday I wrote a lot of twitter poems, each one for a different prompt, but all seemed to have a common theme. These are the darker one.
Through the haze,
I see you melting into distance
like smoke from a dead fire.
After the fire
only black ash
smears its greasy trails
on the ground,
and a pain aches
like the burned hole
where my heart was.
Winds lash tender blossom,
rain tears sweet petals,
and I weep for the beauty lost
when the river howls
beneath dark spring clouds.
I have no memory
of another time
before the dark,
perhaps hidden in apple blossom,
waiting to unfold,
perhaps in the green mists
of another spring.
All is change,
the past slipped away
like fallen cherry blossom,
out of reach
of your destructive fingers.
Is it so monstrous, the deluge
that washes away the blossom,
when in its place,
a million bright new leaves
are softly unfurling?
Spring wind shakes the boughs,
blossom, barely born, undone,
falls soft as feathers—
light grows brazen in the sky,
harsh, the sun, I shade my eyes.
For the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt. This week’s words are:
SPARK | TOUCH | TWIST | HEALTH | REST
The spark that touched the bud
made the flower burst,
a caught cascade of petals
that pour from boughs still bare,
black as winter, shiny ’neath the rain.
Rest a while, and let sap rise,
a fountain of goodness,
and tardy leaves unfurl
to curl about the blown blooms
before march winds scatter,
the first spring glory.
Painting by van Gogh
At the end, a flowering tree,
Its petals cast on a sea of mists,
The dreams of all the world.
On the edge, a last tree bends,
Showering a whispering tapestry
Of lost loves and hopes,
Drifting into eternity.
When the end comes,
And all the blossom is fallen,
When cold winter strews dead leaves into the gulf,
Who will hear the last song of the wind,
Crying among black branches?