I haven’t done one of these in an age. For the dverse prosery night.
The general finally wound up his speech. ‘So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.” His horse shook its head and the general raised his, to stare into the middle distance, a heroic poise. He pulled on the reins, and to whoops and cheers, turned his horse around to ride off majestically to the rear. “They need not fear the firing squad for insurrection, he means.” Alfred spat on the ground and nudged Bill in the ribs. “He wasn’t talking about that lot out there.” The two men stared over the sandbags at the line of men, advancing through the dust raised by armoured cars and tanks. Bill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because they’re going to do more’n harm us. They’re going to fuckin’ wipe us off the face of the fuckin’ earth.”
My first attempt here had too many lines. This is the second attempt, a poem with nine lines. For dverse.
I walked today beneath the oak trees dark, Boughs heavy with their fruit, a harvest for The small and humble. Touch the rugged bark And hear the whisper from the sappy core; The jay the squirrel, this is all for you, Smooth satined, take however much you need Bury some to see the winter through, Remember that each acorn is a seed— Dig deep, for this is how the world is treed.
First day of August is Lugh’s day, harvest day, the day of festivities and games in honour of Lugh’s foster mother, of Puck fairs, wild goats and bilberries. Balanced between the summer solstice and the autumn equinox it marks the high point of summer, the gathering of the crops, the slide into cooler weather, when plenty gives hope of surviving the winter.
The wheat was harvested here weeks ago and the hay. Crops ripen and the next is sown with little help from nature, and Lugh turns away from those who think they know better. I picked the first blackberries, a gift, but gifts are meagre in these days of plenty, and who listens to the growling of the sky?
summer scarce begun ill-used by storm winds the first leaves fall