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

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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