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