Three poems

Three ways to say the same poem. Or is there just one way, and the others are facets, shadows that it casts?

1.

The world has shifted, all the summer gone;
The swallows that turned sky to ocean flown,
Turned wind to waves the length of summer days,
And with the turning wind, like dry leaves blown.
Beneath this sky of knotted winds and drifts
Of cloud, we stand our faces to the west,
To bathe in sunset’s fire, as summer fades,
And put the light half of the year to rest.

2.

Summer
gone, swallows flown
that turned the wind to waves,
and with the turning wind, like dry
leaves blown.
Beneath this sky of knotted winds
and drifts of cloud, we stand
as summer fades
to rest.

3.

Gone summer,
swallows and their wind-waves
blown leaves in the knotted sky.

We raise sun-fired faces
to the coming dark.

#Tanka Tuesday: Childhood

It’s a long time since I did any syllable counting, but this image brought back such memories, I gave it a go. A butterfly cinquain for Colleen Chesebro’s photo prompt.

Screenshot 2020-08-18 at 14.52.08

 

A child,

butterfly, I

followed the abandoned

track, slowly reconquered by green

nature

like a child’s wary creeping, head

lifted to leaf and bird,

slow as water

flowing.

Tanka Tuesday: Well worn comforts

Comfort

falls in moonbeams,

sun dapples on water,

in the who who of nightwind owls,

asking.

It sinks with a sigh into well

worn chairs, fills the eyes of

the old dog by

the fire.

 

A second butterfly cinquain. It was supposed to be for Colleen’s challenge using both words this time, but I forgot to use synonyms. Third attempt below.

 

Threadbare

trees revive, burst

in bud-blossom pink-white,

leafing into unfurled green flags,

waving.

Well-being falls in golden sun,

in bright silver rain-splash

and the blackbird’s

sweet song.