Ce soir de nuages


Ce soir de nuages,

qui cachent des seaux

d’eaux et de grêlons,

et cette lune a moitié mangée,

rongée par l’espace,

je te cherche dans les ombres mouvants,

argentés et sombres,

et j’écoute le vent,

trie les sons sauvages

pour un note de flute argenté,

qui serait ton dernier mot,

que le flot emporte,

la houle de nuit encre,

le sifflet du dernier train.


This night of cloud

that hides pails of rain

buckets of hail

and a half-eaten moon

balloon nibbled by space,

I look for you in the moving shadows

silvery sallows,

and I listen to the wind,

unwind the wild sounds

for a silvery flute note—

your final word floats

snatched by the tide,

the flood of night-ink,

that drinks up

the whistle of the last train.


The taste of winter


I sip the fading winter light

Through branches bare where songbirds flit

And taste the gathered clouds of night,

The waterfalls of fires lit

Along the empty stubbled fields.

In outstretched hand I catch a spark

Of starlight that the hunter wields,

Orion striding through the dark

With starry dog at beck and call.

I hear the windsong in the trees,

The whistling thrush, the thunder fall

And race the sun with humming bees,

But in the cracking, splitting cold,

I hear the song of years grown old.



after the rain the moon

like sand settling


in animal pelts


half grainy movement.

I sift the grains

the crosshatched trees

for the magical hare

in the pooled darkness

of these shifting seas

but the night closes

after the rain

full of moon-wash


my elusive wilderness.

On the night lake

Another of Paul Militaru’s photos with the lovely title of Night and snow over birds prompted this poem. Thank you, Paul!


On the night lake, grey gulls glide,

While snow falls thick upon the ride,

Where foxes pad and pheasants hide.

In summer waters small boats plied

Across the lake so smooth so wide,

Where mallards swim and grey gulls glide,

And many came here, sat and sighed

For lovers lost, for lovers died.

While snow falls thick upon the ride,

As cold as tears I’ve shed and dried,

Like stone I sit in lonely pride,

Among the gulls that drift and glide,

And wait for turning time and tide.


Letting go


When the world slips into night

and the fire dies, the cold creeps,

and the rustling among the trees

might be leaves and it might not,

reality dims.

The here, the now,

the present moment floats,

and the hand grasps at empty space.

Words hang, a soft breath,


their modelling blurred,

and the hare that runs

through the light cast by the window

is faint as a ghost,

a piece of night

with another world in its eyes.

A Month with Yeats: Day Ten

A third of the way through, today’s quote is from ‘The Host of the Air.’

‘And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,’  W.B. Yeats.


In the rushes by the bank, she glides,

The swan on the empty lake,

From the gold-tipped points of morning

To the dusk where shadows break,

And she lays her long neck sadly

In the hollow of her wings,

For the tide brings only night time

And the dark, when no bird sings.

Screech owl cries

A Rhyme Royal for the dverse prompt this evening. Prompted by the sound of hunting owls, so loud at nightfall here.

Image ©Art Siegel


The first stars wake in autumn evening’s sky,

The sun has set long since, and hushed the air,

Beneath the earth, the night-touched creatures lie,

And wait for dark to leave their hidden lair.

The weeping in the house, too hard to bear,

I listen, ’neath the stars as darkness spreads,

And shiver at owl’s cry, what each heart dreads.


The moving finger stops above the roof,

Feathered portent perches high and screams.

We quail, as if we needed no more proof,

Our worst fears come to roost above the beams,

Death walks among the shadows, so it seems.

But in the east, moonrise casts golden light,

A smile, a sigh, death will not come tonight.