before the tractors are awake, listen to the gentle words of the warbler in the willows,
the oriole playing flute notes
that never quite make a song, the brush of leaves, summer-dry, when someone passes, furtive and sleek. Listen before you scroll through the litany of lies, and perhaps bird-words will linger and some of the truth will stick.
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
waking to sunlight
pale as moonlight
silver in the grass where gold waits
strung with jewelled drops
Poem gleaned from my Saturday conversation with the Oracle.
sky scattered on the grass
a broken firmament
millions of bright fragments
colour of mornings and evenings
and in the sharp shadows
between each tall blade
nights full of stars
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?
specked with gold
dappled with the light and shade
of orioles’ calls
the rich rolling taste
of warm sun
on night damp grass
spreads beneath the shadows
trembles grass stalks
sings through the watery roots
in the supple soprano
of the tireless nightingales.
Mick Talbot reminded me I haven’t written a Serpent’s Tail poem in a while.
glass green sea,
fleeting glimpse of another world.
Hurled from night,
bright threaded net,
wet with dew,
through-strung with gems.
send silver ripples spreading,
bedding for a day dawning,
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.
Another Rhyme Royal for the
dverse prompt, because I like this form.
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.
At the dawning,
the roses bled.
The blackbird’s song
notes filled with dread.
In the dew,
a hint of you,
and the words you’d said.
They’ll never dry,
though the sun climbs high,
and the night has fled.
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.
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.