Sky fire

December dawn in crimson
black-etched
spreading colour waves
belling thrush and robin songs into the west
where embers of sun-fire smoulder.

December dawn1

December dawn2

 

 

December dawn 4

 

December dawn 5

 

December dawn 6

Dawn yesterday. I’ve never seen such an intense crimson sky. Deepest in the east, and in the west a mass of orange cloud hung where the sun sank the evening before.

A thrush, the first bird

 

The restless, storm-tossed night was long,

dark filled with wave-hiss, snapping boughs,

a ship moored in a sea-rocked berth.

 

No stars, a heavy quilt of cloud

pressed down, oppressed the swaying trees,

the restless storm-tossed night was long.

 

When rage along the river swept,

storm carried north across the hills,

dark filled with wave-hiss, snapping boughs,

 

a thrush, the first bird, broke the calm,

a rush of song sailed through the dawn,

a ship rocked in a sheltered berth.

Three Line Tales: Dreamworld

This story is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Emily Morter via Unsplash

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Through the bars of the window she looked across at the dreary skyline, the turrets and towers of the public buildings shadowing the squalor she knew lay beneath, silent and desperate.

The dream had come back, stronger and more vivid than ever; the soft colours of the strange landscape still clung to her retinas, and she seemed to sense the gentle breeze on her skin and the smell of perfumes, exotic and mysterious.

Dawn broke in a blaze of pink light and, catching her breath in awe at the unheard of sight, she let tears of joy fall unchecked when she recognized, behind the veils of morning cloud, the glorious landscape of her dreams.

Children of the night

Since we’re in ottava rima mode for dverse, here’s another one for the Real Toads prompt, based on this quote:

“’Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!” – Dracula

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When sunset’s fire fades to deepest dark,

Midnight’s children scatter through the sky,

A mantle woven from the primal spark,

For this, each day, the sun’s fate is to die.

Music of the stars, song of the lark,

Work their magic, dreams spread wings and fly.

I walk the paths of day and skim the night,

On swallow’s wings into the birth of light.

Dawn breaks

Just seen the notification that it’s quadrille day at dVerse poets pub. A quadrille is a poem of 44 words, and I like to make them rhyme. I love quadrilles so here’s the first one.

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Dark night,

star bright,

dawn breaks,

day wakes,

and in the trees

flutters a breeze,

feathered, unfurled,

leaves uncurled

with birdsong loud,

wreathed in cloud

of all the hues,

the reds and blues

that ever mind dreamt,

in heaven time spent,

morning’s pure light.

Moon roses

I shall never know what the oracle would have whispered to me last Saturday, but today she waxed lyrical. This message is to be passed on to the Elusive Trope for his Magnetic Saturday collection of mysticisms.

 

Breathe the sweet forest air,screen-shot-2016-11-05-at-21-36-39

feel the deep cold of night,

see the river of light at dawn,

watch the moon roses

cloud bright lake water

and soft rain fall.