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.
that shakes the trees
is the wind’s, the voice that
calls in the night and stirs your dreams.
to its wild song woven with threads
of moon silver and the
Kerfe’s owl again.
night is cold
full of stars and owls
bound in streamers of moonlight
night is cold
windows run wet
breath steams and streams
while the owl mocks
owl song trembles
tremolo among the dark trees
winged grace quavering
in the chill of starlight
moon round and pale
silent as owl-flight
casts a chill eye
for the night is cold
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.
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
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.
moon picks up
the stray threads
weaves a new
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
in the parched grass of the night
pools of silver light
almost like rainwater
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
Evening falls and falls
until the glow of gloaming turns to gloom of night,
yet there is always light somewhere
to bridge the dark,
in eyes where stars settle, pearls,
in pools of limpid water silvered by the moon.
I dip my hand into the water.
Your smile ripples back.