I have just watched the first mass migration of the spring, perhaps a thousand cranes in just one of the skeins, flying in reasonably ordered formation, heading north east. Their trumpeting call is triumphant, sonorous, stay in line, don’t stray, keep in the slipstream if you’re tired.
Home calls, spring, the nest, and the mate for life to help raise the new chicks. No one is left behind, all take turns to fray a path through the winds. Only birds, but can we claim the same honour?
cloud-streaked blue rain-rippled
ocean of feathers
I liked the image for the last Ekphrastic prompt and wrote several poems to it. You can read the selected poems here. This is one of my (unsuccessful) contributions.
There are fish in the sea that fly on silver fins
and birds in the air that swim with sea-smooth wings.
There is gold in the light and silver in the night
and green weed, a forest in deep water.
There are banners in the wind that call to prayer
and prayers in the wind that call to the banners.
Fish, birds, sunlight gold and streaming weed dance
on the blackberry path, for they know not what they do,
unlike the wind that waves the banners that point the
way to the black oil-slicked darkness at the world’s end.
For the dverse prompt, movement.
Each letting go
is torn from us by circumstance,
tossed on heavy seas,
a whisper caught by the wind.
We look ahead,
see only the dread of a wilderness,
filled full of other people’s roots.
Laughing gulls mock
our trailing root-wounds, red and raw,
and call out,
We fold things neatly
with sprigs of lavender
between the best sheets,
but the soil clings to our boots,
beneath our finger nails,
clings so hard around our hearts
sometimes they break.
an ocean of cloud
billows on a grey sea
rain in the wind
through sea mist
and rolling cloud the geese
racket in the sky
arrowhead pointed homeward
These are my haiku in response to Ronovan’s challenge. Very timely as the cranes are passing overhead in their droves at the moment on their way south. Four poems this week—I love cranes.
Fly, crane, bearing gold
sun’s ashes, south wind-scattered,
home calls, winter comes.
Autumn sky washed gold
chases echoes of bird joy
home calls the cranes south.
Wintering cranes pass
beating the north from their wings
bearing autumn gold.
Sunset golden sky
arrowed black with beating wings
grey cranes flying home.