Gogyohka sequence for morning songs

looking south and west

on the telephone wire

the kestrel’s perch

a blackbird sings

suspended above hedge and nest

oblivious to property rights

 

morning music swells

the oriole section in the poplars

thrush and blackbird centre oaks

and on the right

woodpigeon percussion

 

waking to sunlight

pale as moonlight

silver in the grass where gold waits

strung with jewelled drops

of birdsong

What if

 

What if this morning were to be the last,

sheathed in rain,

unsheathed steel gleaming in the sky?

Would I take more joy in the head-high fescue

that overarches buttercup suns

and the blue skies of flax?

 

(A deer gallops into the meadow; russet force treading the misty white and yellow, hidden from sight where the willows and dogwoods grow rooted in frog water. Another minute, head turned in distraction, and I would never have known. These presences occupiers of this space where we walk, grim-footed with our measures and fence posts, quiver between the seen and unseen of this interlude).

 

And if the dark gripped tighter

and dragged us deeper away from the light,

would I still feel the touch of your hand,

soft and thorny as the dog rose flowers,

winding through the hibiscus?

This web of gathered morning

A morning poem inspired by Mick Talbot’s Epanalepsis poetry.

 

Morning creeps across a field of creeping sunlight,

Filling spider webs with crystal-spangled webbing,

Gathering night, shadows beneath the hedges gathered,

Singing low the songs of blackbirds where the cattle low.

I wake and wade the low sunlight, this web of gathered morning.

Misty morning

Another Rhyme Royal for the dverse prompt, because I like this form.

Morning3

On these golden mornings of October,

When dawn light fills the valley sleepy pearl,

When stars have set and leaves fall without number,

Into the dewy meadow where mists swirl,

I hear the shattered peace, the bright jays’ skirl,

And wonder will I cease to feel the pain,

Of clenched heart, when the guns spew mortal rain.

 

Along the misty river

It’s open night at the dVerse pub, so anything goes. The photo is one I took this morning. The poem, a triolet is inspired by it.

mistyriver

Along the misty river fly

The ghosts of gulls with strident calls,

And I can barely see the sky.

Along the misty river fly

Shades of the lost, I hear them cry.

They search the banks as twilight falls

Along the misty river. Fly,

The ghosts of gulls with strident calls.

#writephoto microfiction: The tides of the night

This is for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto challenge. It started off as a poem and I rewrote it as a piece of prose, a sort of prose poem. I might try again and write something more story-like.

dark-dawn

Purple the sky that quenches the sun, violet the cloudy horizon, and midnight is blue as a deep, dark well. I watch the fire that dies in the west, the night that falls harder than winter, and I long for a star to follow, for someone to guide my steps onward. But the valley echoes bronze bell-hollow, and the sedge bends beneath unseen steps. In the well of the world, the moon swims, a fish, round as a cheese, pale as death waiting like me, for the rising tide.

Purple the sky that rains cold tears, and I hide my face from its sorrow. But still I see the violet light of tomorrow’s illusions flicker and skim the dark well, a mirror, reflecting your face. Moon rises, flooding the world, and the great pale fish flicks its tail at the stars. On the mountain, I see through the snow—or is it the silver moonlight?—wolf tracks leading north. Something beckons, the wild red savagery of life, perhaps, and I feel the threads of my heart breaking. I will follow the wolf and the stars that shine behind the cloud that masks the sky, though you call and haul at the broken net.

Beyond the midnight sea is morning. Beyond the mocking mirror is a sky aflutter with white wings, rippling with the dance of the moonfish. You snapped my heart strings when you plucked them with the wrong music, and the purple and the violet, the colours of death, I shed like the rose sheds the dew on a windy autumn morning.