The line from The Maltese Falcon is similar but not exactly the same as a line from The Tempest. I have used the original so Shakespeare gets the credit. I’ve bent the rules of the dverse prompt a bit. The title is a nod at Gerard Manley Hopkins.
This time, this place swells full as seed pods with such stuff as dreams are made on, pours such light as stars englobe and sings such songs as angels envy.
Our little lives are pale as starlight in the bright of first sun rising, waking from the dark of sleeping, sweet ephemera we breed,
like damselflies upon the water, turquoise, crimson, fiery glimpses of the molten core, the deep heart, that fountains here among these trees.
In the waking world, the dancers slip between the now and then, but these small fields remember beauty, dreams or fancies planted deep;
I see them blooming when I sleep, and when I laugh, and when I weep.
(for dverse to be sung to the tune of the Blue Danube)
The last leaf that clings in the wind and the rain is the leaf that will fly with the wings of a bird, and I’ll watch its last dance as it blows in its russet attire, the gown of the belle of the wild autumn ball, when the trees are stripped naked and birdsong is mournful, the sky full of winter, no swallows and even the geese, they’ve all flown, and they’ll not be back till spring!
we loved that wound about the hill is still, though we have gone and left the silent house, the woods and hedges left untended, till the quiet ones return, the hare and mouse, reclaim their night land home. I hope they will.
Blue is the last to go, when the waltzing pinks and whites and golds are cold and grey with shadows, and mist rising, dew dropping, drained of day-life, still as the ocean bottom.
I watch for pike where magpies waddled.
Above a wash of water-blue, blue light, the set sun, lingering by proxy, pricked and pierced by the jagged light of stars, reefs in the deeps where satellites float in their lonely glitter, pretending to be meteorites or asteroids,
There is no present moment. It’s gone like a raindrop falling, no time to inspect it, turn it about to see the seams. The light dips, and the last blackbird is silent. Did I notice the last notes? Or are they confused with the nightingales’ songs that never end? Light, ever changing fades to grey, the moon hidden behind thick cloud. Each moment thickens the colour until there are no moments of grey left on the palette, and shades of black begin. Birdsong beats the rhythm of passing moments, flowing into the past like stream water flowing into the future river, while I listen helplessly to the bird notes of an unrepeatable song.
night flowers with stars flower with light showering night-petalled stars
The dverse prompt tonight is fortuitous, as I was going to do this anyway, though not, perhaps, in rhyme.
I was going to write a note today To explain why I have been away And only call from time to time. Why the only entries on the page Are short, delivered, then the stage Is empty, left to echo rhyme.
I feel the time is racing past, The days too short and fading too fast, And I have got a book to write Before the baby comes and stakes A claim to all my time and takes, In tiny grip, both day and night.
So all the prompts are put on hold Until I have my story told, And I can think of other things, Crawl back from far antiquity, Its mysteries and iniquity, Hold in my hands the joy life brings.