Night is here again

night2

Night is here again,
dark as ever, dark as Hades
and full of rain.

The light returns tomorrow
so they say, the ones who know,
who measure the turning of the earth
through standing stones

and the stories coursing in their blood
of death and birth,
and how the sunrise hits a smooth stone
in a chamber set into a hill.

Night is here again.
That’s all I know.

Goodnight moon

at the end of the day

we can only say the day is ended

the sun has set

and in the whispering of the leaves

is the promise of tomorrow

 

tomorrow begins with the dark

and the moon’s course across the sky

the patterings and scufflings among the grasses

the hunting owls

and the dropping dew

 

dew prefigures frost

the silver veiling of the earth

paling of the green

and trembling tree shadows

to the colour of moonlight

 

moonlight bathes

the meadow is awash

and the day has ended in the night ocean

I sail sunwards

clutching my promise of tomorrow

night talk

 

all day long the thrushes sing

and in the night the owls

play ghost with one another

among the swaying trees

 

beneath the cold stars winking

their feathery tremolo rolls

and bright-eyed mice count frightened

heartbeats hard as sunflower seeds

 

among damp night stalks trembling

foxes walk and badgers growl

while I listen to the moonlight-

darkened voices of the wild

 

breathe the musky scent of tree bark

and the rolling dewy grasses

where they walk and we would follow

ghosts all in the dusky night

 

A poem I wrote today and have finished up for the dverse prompt.

Purblind

Night_by_Edward_Burne-Jones_(1870)

Tonight it seems as though the sky,

the heavy drapery diamond-stitched,

waveless, waterless ocean where ice

is formed and falls in flakes

of chiselled chaff, is blue as day,

the light turned off and curtains drawn.

The light turned off and curtains drawn,

purblind we cower beneath

the trembling shadow-wings

of its monumental dark majesty.

 

The hand that shakes

A butterfly cinquain that doesn’t quite fit the remit for Colleen’s challenge as I have only used a synonym for one of the words.

 

The hand

that shakes the trees

is the wind’s, the voice that

calls in the night and stirs your dreams.

Listen

to its wild song woven with threads

of moon silver and the

gentle questions

of owls.

Night owls and cold moon

Kerfe’s owl again.

owl moon s

night is cold

full of stars and owls

hard brilliance

feather softness

bound in streamers of moonlight

 

night is cold

windows run wet

breath steams and streams

while the owl mocks

our shivering

 

owl song trembles

tremolo among the dark trees

warm notes

winged grace quavering

in the chill of starlight

 

moon round and pale

baleful silver

silent as owl-flight

casts a chill eye

for the night is cold

A toad sits

Night_and_Sleep_-_Evelyn_de_Morgan_(1878)

Night flies on out-flung turquoise wings

folding feathers of fucshia and the taste

of pressed gold into cloud shapes and the

roaring of the poplars in the wind.

 

Grass shadow stretches earthwards and

upwards grey as dusky earth and the colour

of the toad waiting for the light music to fade

and the tranquil dark sea to rise and fall.

 

Cool seeps from well and water, earth turns

slow and stately as moonbeams, and life walks

on slender bufonid legs into the leaf-rustle

hush of the star-dimpled night ocean.

In the reaches of the night

738px-Franz_Marc_009.jpg

Something calls in the reaches of the night, where stars

wash back and forth, caught in the swell of the sky.

 

Its wordless words are saying that this place between

hoof, paw and the netted stars, that stirs in flaring nostrils

 

and tastes of the night, is love and anguish at its loss, is

birth and death and all of life between, muscles sliding

 

beneath hide and feathered flight. It says, listen to life

calling, hear its song in the snailshell of the ear, feel it

 

growing deep in the bones. Keep it close, let it not be

snatched away snuffed out in blood and tears,

 

but carry it always to sing, loud-throated as the blackbird,

into the teeth of death and the last silence.

In the dusk of the year

 

In the dusk of the year

we stand wreathed in flying leaves

and restless skies watching

the dark half of the year turn closer

remembering the cold that bites

beneath snow-filled cloud

and our dreams full of fire.

 

In the twilight of all things that matter

we lie down on scorched grass

and watch the storm clouds gather.

No rainbows will follow this deluge

no ark no saving graces.

No dawn will follow this night

of no moon and no stars.

 

Night falls

and falls

 

and

 

 

falls

 

 

~fin~

 

 

Night time: gogyohka sequence

 

moon picks up

the stray threads

of sunlight

weaves a new

cloth

 

moonlight

a haze of motes

soft as feathers

kinder than sunlight’s glare

I wear it gladly

 

wandering strands of silver

strands of gold

among the green and the grey

skylights finding their way

to earth

 

in the parched grass of the night

pools of silver light

sooth

almost like rainwater

falling

 

we see only beauty

in the fields of the night

hear only music

in the cry of the hunting owl

beneath the silver a sprinkling of red blood