Last night

Photo©Brocken Inaglory

Last night

There is darkness in this light,
this pale banquise of the sky,
black boughs up-reaching and homing crows,

cold in the hollows where frost will grow
and huddle birds on midnight branches,
and in night falling from the cold reaches of space,

touching the golden grass-pools
with an antique breath, old as dragons,
scaled skin creaking in every stiffening blade of grass.

There is darkness behind the soft lamp light,
the murmuring flames, voices hushed
as leaves before sunset silence,

it grows in the depths of eyes,
receding from this world, searching inwards
for the way in a gathering gloom.

Pale light ebbs from the cold sky,
leaves behind on its pale strand, the spiralled shell of an eye,
a dragon’s watching gaze, the evening star.

I hear it calling you with the wild voice of olden times,
urging those stiff unbending legs to run
with the pack, waiting on the other side of this night.

In the wind

1024px-alfred_sisley_lautomne_-_bords_de_la_seine_pres_bougival_autumn_-_banks_of_the_seine_near_bougival_1873

In the wind, dead leaves are flying,

Drifting gold on silver water,

The river running to the sea.

 

Blackbirds chase among the branches,

The fruit that shrivels on the vine,

In the wind, dead leaves are flying.

 

Autumn sun sinks, pale and failing,

Like dreams that gleam just out of reach,

Drifting gold on silver water.

 

Though last beams end their flight in shadow,

Hand in hand, we watch till night falls,

The river running to the sea.

Purple dusks

A poem that wouldn’t let me sleep last night

cassatt_mary_children_on_the_beach_1884

Where have they gone, the purple dusks,

The golden days of honeyed balm?

How did time tick tock so fast?

Slipped through the fingers, the small radiant joys,

In a cascade of colours, flowing like silk,

Into the vast, blue ocean no dike can hold back,

That we skimmed on snow-white feet for want of wings.

The soft nights and mornings full of love,

And the birds that sang their ancient songs

Among the spring and summer roses,

Long gone, their memory echoing sweet,

A scattering of feathers, like fallen petals.

Shadows on the flesh now,

The touch of a small, sticky hand in mine,

Sleek, warm, undemanding fur

Of placid, ephemeral companions,

And the heart overflowing, the arms overflowing,

With the glorious burden of a tired child,

All swept away, dead leaves in the wind,

The old rocking horse that gallopy-gallopied you off to bed,

Lost now beyond the bend in the road.

Illusions

A cascade poem for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt. The words to use are:

PRIDE | KEEP | CLOSE | SLOW | TENDER

1024px-Albert_Lorey_Groll_Sunset_in_Nevada

At the close of day,

tender pigments tint

the canvas of the sky.

 

Your face in darkness lies,

pale where shadows fall,

at the close of day.

 

Day’s illusions fade,

monochrome revealed, that

tender pigments tint.

 

Pride keeps pain at bay,

as slowly night bestars

the canvas of the sky.

Childhood

The Daily Post prompt is: childhood.

Niko_Pirosmani._A_Fox_in_a_Moon_Night._Oil_on_oilcloth._State_Art_Museum_of_Georgia,_Tbilisi,_Georgia

In the growing shadows of my thoughts,

Where trees would sing and ring and spread so high,

And wonder lie in pebble-glinting pools,

There is still a place of laughter far away.

 

Receding into vague, forgetful mists,

The past is overlaid with myriad cares,

The child I was plays silently today,

In the growing shadows of my thoughts.

 

Forest glades encircled by the world,

No longer secret gardens tucked away,

The magic gone from falcon-hunting woods,

Where trees would sing and ring and spread so high.

 

Sunbeams slid through summer dancing leaves,

Dappling and rippling the silver running stream,

Blackbird day would follow fox-quick night,

And wonder lie in pebble-glinting pools.

 

Though shadows crowd the brightness and the the joy,

And silence fills the glades where foxes played,

Childhood glows, a gem, beneath a glass:

There is still a place of laughter far away.

In the long grass

Painting by Maria Oakey Dewing

Maria Oakey Dewing

In the long grass poppies blow,
Glowing embers of summer heat.
Fleet, the failing, fading day,
Stay, the evening star,
Far and bright,
Light in the turquoise sky.
Fly, the southbound birds,
Words in the gusting wind,
Thinned, the leaves in the poplar trees,
Lees of summer wine,
Mine, the last of the nectar sweet.
Fleet the failing, shortened days,
Stays the cold of early morning,
Dawning red where the poppies blow,
Glowing in the late autumn grass.

Summer’s ending

Summer_day-Carl_Aagaard

In these end of summer days
The noonday sun is just as fierce
And burns the evening sky with August’s ardent flames.
The sky’s a sheet of burnished blue
And leaves hang limp and weary as the twilight falls.
But the mornings of these end of summer days
Are brisk with breezes from the cooling sea
And dew hangs cold and heavy on the grass
Where long shadows linger waiting for the sun.
The blackbird has no more heart to sing
Mindful of the dearth and coming cold
And fruit falls to the leaf-strewn ground
To rot into the mould of fallen blooms.
A sadness settles on my heart
Like shadows falling on a mountain side
At so much fading from the world
That was so vibrant only days before.
But you cup my face and set your eyes in mine
I feel the warmth that comes from your familiar hands
And in those eyes as green as any mountain side
I see reflected our shared summers past
All their sweetness stored like ripened fruit
To be savoured when our days are short and dark.