This cloud hangs heavy for all,
but I feel the weight, damp and clammy,
the hand wrapped across my mouth, muffling the cry.
Who hears in this cold sea,
where drowning trees wave their arms,
shaking birds into the sky waters?
I listen but nobody comes
to ask the way or leave a note.
Crows make their show on the wires.
Day dims as it grows into midday,
through the falling rain into evening, the swollen time
when the sun should burn the clouds bonfire red
and the world give up
its ghosts to fly owl-winged
through the rustling dark.
a day of early sun
and from a distant tree
the thrush’s song
and everywhere the singing water
running running running
ripple song from bird throat
and ripple sun on water
and grass waving
from silver ditch depths
that yesterday were crisp with frost
We start the day in fog that clings so wet
And coats the trees in grey of mud made air.
Not bitter cold this solstice time and yet,
We start the day in fog that clings so wet.
With thoughts of sunlight and regret,
That winter gnaws the bones and strips them bare,
We start the day—this fog that clings so wet
Coats phantom trees in grey of mud made air.
There’s probably a name for this padded out cinquain form.
that starts in fog
weaves shadows at midday
where water puddles leaf-muddy
and ends in birdless cold
Silence reigns over these meadows
where brown leaves drip into the lush autumn green.
Only birds still call in the stillness,
the small twitterers,
whose lives revolve around a seed head
or a tardy insect.
until the frost comes,
and the seeds hide
in the cold bare lap of winter.
In this world of cold and damp dearth
which among these bright specks of hope
will see the spring?
I’ve been writing shadormas again. The November challenge was a good exercise. I’m going to post one a day until we all get bored with it.
From this chair,
I watch the light change,
fall in veils
and the oak leaves wind-tremble,
dry as brown paper.
In the dark December tree,
Black branches bare against the sky,
Cold mist clings and drips
And the last leaves flap
The heavy, brown flags
Of summer’s surrender.
In the dark tree,
Among the dead leaves,
Robin pours his winter song,
Red throat a winter bloom,
Ember of summer fire.
The leafless tree,
Claimed by the freezing mist
And bleak hand of the north,
Fills with music.
I close my eyes
And the bite of the cold
For the space of a song
Is a little less deep.