Evening falls and falls

 

Evening falls and falls

until the glow of gloaming turns to gloom of night,

yet there is always light somewhere

to bridge the dark,

in eyes where stars settle, pearls,

in pools of limpid water silvered by the moon.

I dip my hand into the water.

Your smile ripples back.

Dusk when

 

Dusk

when the light is muddied

by the day dragging faded glitter

through the streams of night.

Song flows

a ripple of farewell to the sun

and shadows move from their lairs

beneath the trees.

Light shifts

uncertain as the notes

that rise and fall fading

as feathers settle.

Buttercups hold the last gold

in cupped petals

and all that breathes is hushed

watching the muddied uncertain

shifting light

sigh and sift the silver

of the rising moon.

Fires will blaze

Today and tomorrow, we celebrate Imbolc, Brigid’s fire festival, midway between the winter and spring solstices, when the ewes start to give milk, the first spring flowers appear, and the end of the winter is in sight. This small poem is inspired by Paul Militaru’s splendid photographs that you can see here. There may well be more.

 

Fires will blaze,

feet tread in the darkness,

soft and silent,

while faces of the wild,

peer, watching,

waiting for the spring.

Flames lick the dead wood,

burn up the old,

light the new,

and in the ashes,

grass shoots.