So blue the morning
rises from the frost
dark the water
beneath the ice
still the world
behind cold glass
unfolding.
So blue the morning
rises from the frost
dark the water
beneath the ice
still the world
behind cold glass
unfolding.
Cold of daybreak
and we suck in our breath
gasp at the sudden burning in the throat
lungs filling with fire.
White as the ashes of hell
the silent earth waits
painted scenery
of an apocalyptic play;
air glitters vibrates
with small birdwings
and a glimmer of hope runs
through the veins of the morning
like quicksilver.
And all the roses frozen
caught tight in winter’s tide
the soft white fur belies
the death inside
touched by cold sun
softening worm-brown
reclaimed.
not frost white or mist pearl
no photogenic shading
all is flat
monotone
crows beat a black rhythm
across furrowed fields
and sky colourless as the water
pouring over the world’s edge.
I listen for the echo of growing
rising with the clouds of seaspray
but only crowsong stirs the air
black throats choking on the sun.
Cold sweeps,
weeps tears of frost,
lost among the grass.
In the dark, stars spoke,
broke their silent dance,
enhancing the night.
From pods, white furred,
bird shakes the seeds,
feeds fire-spark quick.
Thick mists curl,
furling, swirling, pearl bright
light of a year grown old.
Cold creeps
rain pours
and by the door a river runs.
Clouds bowl
across the skating rink sky
and trees wave bare arms calling
foul.
Too wet and cold and dim and dull
to walk wet fields
and even the mob of finches by the house
has dispersed beneath the tears.
Dog grumbles in his sleep
cats twitch
and the stove spits and spats its stingy heat.
Inside
the cold sits tight as pack ice
and by the door
a river runs.
For the dverse prompt.
When indoor temperatures are only a few degrees above the outside, and chilblains form peeling potatoes got out of the barn, there is a kinship with the cold, the stillness and the furtive feathered and furred life that creeps and sweeps about the frosty fields. I feed the birds and whatever else enjoys fruit past its best and the contents of the bread bin. January is chill. We all long for the spring.
Stark still sky echoes
with the boom of cracking ice—
north wind keening.
Assembling the Jigsaw of a Febrile Imagination
Navigare con attenzione, il Blog si sbriciola facilmente
Inspiration, History, Imagination
Extraordinary Tales of Nature
Diary of a Dublin Housewife
Poems from the Celtic fringes
Stay Bloody Poetic
i think therefore i write
Books and new writing
Never back down 🔱⚔️
Ein OIKOS[TM]-Projekt gegen Antisemitismus, Rassismus, Extremismus und Fremdenfeindlichkeit.
Mad woman from mediocrity, muses.
Canadian Zen Haiku canadien ISSN 1705-4508
Ramblings of an Irish ecologist and gardener
Poetry of a changing Earth. The grief is real--so is the hope.
Inspiring others through the written word, fictional blurbs & documenting my writing process from scratch.
occasional musings of an itinerant seanchaí polishing his craft online
The Things That Are In My Head.
offbeat words for you...
Just writing what's on my mind
AS HUMILDES OPINIÕES DE UMA MULHER DE CORAGEM QUE DIZ SIM À VIDA!
My journey through photography
Inspiration and Spirituality **Award Free**
≈ fictionalpaper / piccoloscissors / creativeglue ≈
Philosophy is all about being curious, asking basic questions. And it can be fun!
Not a literary magazine for ordinary times, but a journal for an exceptional one. Writing the pandemic, together. Image, Somewhere in Time by Hengki Lee: Instagram @hengki_lee