Of mice and fish

We still have mice. As far as the cats are concerned, it’s a non-issue. Trixie is more interested in sardines. At 11 this morning, I started preparing them (the sardines) for lunch, keeping one eye on Trixie sitting on the sink next to me, the other on Bix and Redmond, hovering behind, waiting for a moment’s inattention.
Suddenly, Bix leapt away, around the table, skidding on the carpet, Redmond following. Trixie sat and watched while Bix crashed around in the veranda, overturning the furniture. He was bouncing about, trying to get behind a big wooden chest. I had a look. Mouse. The mouse made a dash for it, Bix on her tail, another chair knocked over. When Redmond saw what the fuss was about, he gave the canine equivalent of an eye roll and went back to watch the sardines.
That was 11am. It’s now 5.30pm. Redmond is asleep in his bed, Trixie is asleep outside in the porch, and Bix is still standing in the kitchen, staring at the place behind the potato crate where the mouse appeared. We still have mice, but at least now we have a mouser.

Heat cracks
brittle as bones
in a dry river bed
sky bright as mirror scales glitters
blinding.

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Winter moon cinquains

Ingrid @Experimentsinfc is on a short form poetry binge over on twitter. Join in. It’s fun. Here are a few cinquains I’ve posted.

This day
of rain and wind
closes at noon, bruised cloud
swells, a rain-tossed sea, where kestrels
plummet.

Moon night
soars the bright rim
bathed in rainglow, puddled
light roaring through grassy ditches,
running.

Moon slides
mountain cloud slopes,
snow bright with silver light
and steely shafts of rain spears where
waves wash.

Star falling

For Colleen’s first challenge of the year, a butterfly cinquain. Inspired by this morning’s tragic news. The body count goes up.

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New year,

new clouds, new night,

peace falls here though the sky

blazes elsewhere, stars fall, trailing

failing

lives. Who hears tears on such a night?

Who sees the hands waving,

the last words breathed,

trailing?

The hand that shakes

A butterfly cinquain that doesn’t quite fit the remit for Colleen’s challenge as I have only used a synonym for one of the words.

 

The hand

that shakes the trees

is the wind’s, the voice that

calls in the night and stirs your dreams.

Listen

to its wild song woven with threads

of moon silver and the

gentle questions

of owls.

Winter morning with birds

Time for some strict syllabic poetry this morning. A cinquain sequence for Colleen’s challenge. Our first real frost and the last for a while I hope, is disappearing in a beautiful cloudless morning.

Photo©hedera.baltica

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White the

winter meadow

furred stiff with frosted cold

that fell with the starlight in night’s

dark time.

 

Bright the

sun in cloudless

sky, sharp as ice shards, blue

as the powdered wings of blue tits

feasting.

 

Night cold,

fading faster

than melting ice, frost-fur

bathed in golden light where birds flit,

squabbling.