1. The music of the North Pole plays frost vibrato of grass stalks beneath an unseen sky, diamond ripple of running water notes, while the black ship, ice-bound, awaits the finale, the report of floes cracking.
2. From my bed I can see the blue tits around the window shutters, industrious tapping, pecking and prising insects hidden in the wood, the hinges cold with night, their hollow bird bones stronger than mine.
3. You glower and complain at the rain, the running rivulets down the window panes, the dullness of the light, irritation sparking in every brusque movement. What will you say when the storm breaks?
4. She’s there, the lake goddess where the rocks of a single island break the silken skin of the water. I hear her song, honey-coloured in the evening light, and wonder do I dare take that cold path.
5. Reading the motifs in the carpet, the bird, the eye, the star, beneath my feet, the sky’s reflection, woven by hands far away, years ago; the colours sing the answer, clear as well water.
For the dverse prosery prompt, a 144 word prose piece.
‘I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night’
from the poem, When we sing of might by Kimberly Blaeser.
Painting by Franz Marc.
Light falls in pale bars through the shutters; mist rises, thickening to fog. The earth will be soft, the mud deep after the rain, and full of prints. I heard them in the dark, the foxes, the dog fox barking on the hill, the circumspect padding beneath the window of the vixen, the dash and leap of the cubs. I will find a tale beneath the tree where I put the food, a tale of full bellies and a full moon to light the way home. I dress. In their stories, patterned and purple as night, are the pangs of hunger, fear of the hunter, the joy of cubs not lost to sickness or starvation. In the dance of their prints I read a little, but no human heart can ever know the wild tastes and tangs, loves and lives of such as they.
Not a cadralor from the Oracle today. A short, sweet and to the point message.
Listening for the echoes
To stop this frantic race and soar with the unthinking grace of a hawk, to run where the stream runs, unquestioning of the end, to board the ship, knowing there may be no return voyage,
is a wish that pulses in the too-human blood, that surged with our first infant cry, that falls in wind-whispers from every broad-leafed tree, tongued in imperatives by the turning-season storms.
I would paint my path in bright colours and follow it, had I the talent, but being no artist, I send my heart in the wake of kingfisher and the white scut of deer, and with my silence, listen for its distant echoes.
I watched two harts lock horns today, The dance was wild with russet light, Their graceful fight seemed more like play. I watched two harts lock horns today; The sun shone gold beneath the may, Until the dusk dipped into night. I watched two harts lock horns; today The dance was wild with russet light.