Tree wealth

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.

Plum blossom

suddenly
the spikes are stuck with froth
black branches clouded
with honey scent
and the brindled buzzing of bees

once frost-furred
the plums are clad
in gull-soft drapery
heady-sweet
as spring water

crisp white
cut out against the blue
a railing of blossom
against the buffeting sea
the house sails

Spring

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 ditches

the overflow from next-door’s pond.

The next pics will be of the frost, if I dare go out in it.

Fire and blossom

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,

mist,

drizzle,

you walk,

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,

fragile memories,

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?

 

 

Blossom undone

Photo©Mrs Gemstone

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.

Blossom burst

For the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt. This week’s words are:

SPARK | TOUCH | TWIST | HEALTH | REST

Photo©Eviatar Bach

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,

rain patter,

mud spatter,

the first spring glory.

The last tree

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?