The promised sun is swept away
and hid beneath the carpet
thick and dank
North wind wails
and gibbers tales
of wolves and whales
where ice floes ply
to and fro.
Magpies strut in penguin suits
through grass that ripples
cold as the sea,
slick and shiny
like new toys
for some monstrous
to show the world
is in a scratched worm.
A poem for this day of Imbolc which is mild and bright, the sun is warm, and the birds are singing spring songs. I’m using this painting of Diana again because it’s such a joyful one.
Before green leaves, sweet birdsong
clothes the trees in beauty,
and through the rain, the air, pearl-bright,
is blue as mists upon the ocean.
Tread with fiery feet
to warm the cockles of the earth,
and hatch the seeded fruits of autumn.
Keep your keening for the year that’s dead,
the crone laid down beneath the winter snows,
and we will sing the green and sun-dyed hopes
in the young year to come.
On this day, the bells rang out,
The crowds cheered, and joy flowed in rivers,
But creeping inexorably into the light,
Its pale, white underbelly revealed,
Nameless and blind, the foul creature we had woken.
No bright lights, no embrace however tight,
No indiscriminate kissing of strangers,
Will ever dispel
That bloated face hiding in the shadows.
Out of the depths, did it croak,
The beast that cannot crawl back,
For we have plumbed the depths
And lit beneath arc lights its depravity.
When the wild, delirious laughter fades,
The only sound I hear
Is the mourners’ song for the dead.
A new photo prompt for a story in three lines. For the rules, to join in, or just to read the other stories, please visit Sonya’s blog.
So pretty, she thought, the way they flutter in the breeze like bird of paradise wings.
She clapped her hands and silence fell. “The honours this year go to…Orange!”
The crowd erupted, a volcanic surge of cheering and roaring as the Orange colours were torn down and thrown on the sacrificial pyre, then screaming as the Orange supporters were tossed after them.
Crisp crackly cold.
Birds wait with ruffled feathers
For the tepid sun to rise.
On the bare rose tree
Last blooms cling,
Brown and mummified.
No new year on a sudden,
Imperceptible changes creep
With the stately majesty of the wheeling stars.
Deep in the earth where worms snout,
And warm-blooded creatures curl,
Hair trembles with electric frost,
Sensory captors waiting, poised,
For the first stirrings.
None of our proclamations
And frenzied, cork-popping, tinsel-laden
Hurry the smallest seed
One second closer
To its green destiny.