In response to the photos, day 6 of Paul Brookes’ what shapes can you see in the clouds challenge.
a shaft of sunlight
streams in golden glory,
dust mote-floating, touching
the shadowed fields below
with the echoing voices of infinity.
In pale imitation, we scrawl our names
in exhaust from screaming engines
across the purity, scratch the coping
of the sky with fingernails,
until the white stuffing bursts,
disperses, sea foam.
This is my poem in response to all Paul Brookes’ cloud photos. You can see them on Paul’s blog here.
There are days when the sky sucks the life
from the earth, feeds on the stillness
the dry, the wet, the leafed and the stony,
draws all into the cloud-bloat above.
We crouch beneath the great presence,
longing for the rupture, the breaking of waters,
to birth a sea of tranquillity.
The photos and poems are on Paul Brookes’ blog here. My poem is based on the third image PB3.
In the light and silence, a single presence
that stalks unseen across the wilderness,
we listen, hoping almost for the patter of rain
to furnish the emptiness with familiar comfort.
Times like this, we shrink from gazing
on the face of the water, on the anger beneath,
when the complicit sky oppresses, reflecting
the darkness swelling in the lake’s deep heart.
Paul Brookes’ new challenge, writing what we see in the clouds. It started yesterday, and I didn’t post my poem. Here it is with today’s poem. You can see the photographs that inspired the poems on Paul’s blog, here and here.
a glimpse of Pompei
beneath the smothering ash
the billowing sea
and the dead light
guiding them home.
Even in the sky, perhaps only in the sky,
the wolf, the boar, the winged beauties race.
Wolf-grey, swept back wings, a day of autumn
fury, as the world turns into steel-blue winter.
Earth summer-baked, now hard with iron-cold,
watches the wild ones gallop, hopes in their return.
And what if a hand
five-clawed, red and bloody,
scratched open the veil of the sky?
We could we see an omen, a portent,
or we could trace the streams of drifting sky,
running through its glorious fingers.
I took this photo yesterday evening of these extraordinary clouds. Well, they look extraordinary to me. I’ve written several poems inspired by what I see here. If you want to borrow it to write a poem or a piece of prose, be my guest.
Against a sky deeper than any blue,
layered light and the still air of the cosmos,
drift the cloud people,
the stories of flying horses,
Freyja’s cats, the winged and warlike.
We point a finger in awe, though there
are no flashing lights, lasers or the
clashing music of the wide screen,
no silver battle ships, racing
faster than light among dazzling
reconstructions of stars.
We pause in wonder,
at the dawn of time.
For the OctPoWriMo prompt ‘purple’.
and shadows merge
and the tableau lives
a moment suspended
dusk dawn daynight
distillation of hues
to make flesh
fall and drift.
A spring weather poem for NaPoWriMo. There is more ciel de traîne here, in French with English adaptation. I wrote it/them when we were still packing up to move. Seems like light years away.
Ciel de traîne
meshes up swallow shoals in grey mists
and goldfinch flocks dart
hysterical with mock fear
in and out of leaf shallows.
Above the rain-damp fields
chains of clouds process
There are no rocks to break this tide
only gentle tree tops
leafing spring green.
for the inevitable gold to fall
through wind rents
fountain through blow holes
and transform this meadow
into a river of diamonds.
Cloud gathers above the lush green
water runs earthwards
rain spilling over sown seeds
recall the sun biding
beyond the grey.
Where will we go when the darkness falls
And from green depths the ocean’s voice calls?
Are there safe places in city sprawls?
We could follow the swallow so swift
And hope for a wind, black clouds to lift,
But flight, narrow-winged, is not our gift.
Air and ocean are bound into one,
All are equal beneath the bright sun,
We’re left with our hearts, when all is done.