Waking

This haibun is for Jilly’s Jim Harrison quote:

“Nature detonates your mind with the incalculable freshness of the new day” 
~ Jim Harrison

Looking east

From this window—shutters just ajar, so I can spy the timid folk who graze and peck the meadow grass and not fright them with my human stare—the morning stretches, shadow-striped, a sleek and hungry cat.

In the west is night, lingering in the trees and in the dark blue sky. Faded stars still blink against the light and catch the waving tops of tallest trees. But here, in the face of the dawn, bloom rose and butter-pale flower clouds, ephemeral as the morning song of the oriole chorus, woodland, woodwind, windblown, brushed in gold dust, spangled with diamond dew.

 

Night curls at tree foot,

black fox, sunlight-shy, feigns sleep,

guarding dusk shadows.

Treasures

Another poem for Jilly’s collection. This one is a haibun.

“Like many poets I’m part blackbird and part red squirrel and my brain chatters, shrieks, and whistles.” ~ Jim Harrison

MySunset2

Through the many-coloured world, spangled and speckled, and scented with the red and blue notes of rose and rosemary and the fresh green of mint, I wing sometimes, or tread the long swaying grass. Always at my side, water runs, and when the river is far away, rain sparkles in the gutter, ditch water cocoons frog ballets, and the ocean of the sky smiles in white waves.

Treasures strew every path, pebble smooth or hooked and barbed with berry flowers, moon pale in the streambed, purple as night water in the meadow grass. From the shade, cool and deep, bright eyes watch, timid, fire-furred, while I thread cow parsley and bindweed into crowns. And when the sun slips behind the poplar trees and their long shadows fill the meadow, I hold my breath and let the blackbird’s song fill my smooth pebbles with summer.

 

Bird alarm chatter,

red streak corkscrews round the tree—

my too heavy tread.

Cassandra

I liked the Jim Harrison quote that Jilly posted yesterday but didn’t have time to write anything from it. I have done now, and combined it with The Secret Keeper‘s writing prompt, taking liberties as usual with the words.

“The birds are a chorus…clearly relatives of Mozart”  ~  Jim Harrison

 

FOUND | ART | STORY | FIRE | TREAT

Franz_Marc-Birds_(Vögel)_(1914)

 

I found the perfect place to sit,

beneath the trees beside the stream

that spins its tales of then and now,

and how the world has always been

 

in this green place.

 

Painted feathers tint the shade,

and half-glimpsed fox-red where the sun

slants gold and misty at midday,

where peace hangs in the falling notes

 

of unseen birds.

 

The clouds that pass seem not for me,

but smoke of other people’s wars,

and I, in beauty’s treasures sleep,

while chorus sings of flames and flight

 

and waning light.