Rain and flood tides fill the river plain, willows wade in water, paddle their roots in overflowing ditches, the stream’s a torrent, and in the cowshed, a toad swims slowly, stoically along the drain and under the door. We watch her rhythmic breast stroke, pulling against the flow, temporary evacuation, a lesson in coping.
These changing skies above, we walk the trees And tread the path of fallen poplar leaves, Brown-turning as the gold of summer fails. As slow as heron-flight, the bright time flees With gentle grace, so nothing truly grieves, Though cold is rising in dusk’s misty veils.
There is green still, just look. Beneath the growing grey, Green grows, rosette-creep, root-tangle that weaves Carpet-patterns, dabbed with sun, and exhales Such light, whispering, as night slips into day, Earth tales.
In answer to Paul Brookes’ hedgehog and tea towel questions which you can see here (WP can feck off with it’s stupid questions).
Once were tea towels
smart-checked and striped, holes now united by threadbare, unravelled warp and weft, linted and loose-threaded, shoe-cleaners, floor-wipers, the unnameable rags that line forgotten places.
~Not all forgotten, not by all~
a hedgehog home, deep in the pile of cracked roof tiles and bricks, beam splinters ancient plaster, is lined with linen, embroidered with oak leaves, spiked and span, gathered by prickles, wind holes filled with moss, a winter sleep away from spring.
A poem for Paul Brookes’ challenge to re-wild the mundane and/or re-mundane the wild. Today we’re dealing with foxes (or toasters). If you’d like the join in, the details are here. I’d like to add that most of the elements of this story are true. Franz Marc provided the illustration.
Where the kitchen stove glows still warm, cats dream, and mice dance with stray crumbs, nudge loose-fitting lids, chew holes in the mesh of the food safe.
Padding soft, almost silent, the fox in the attic descends the cold stairs, grey-ghost, in search of fat mice,
where cats stretch in sleep, in the stove-glow, their dreams full of tiny squeals.
Final day of the clouds challenge. Thank you Paul Brookes, Gaynor Kane and Julian Day for your wonderfully inspiring photography. It has been a pleasure finding adequate words to accompany it. You can see the last set of photos here.
Worlds in the sky
All worlds are there, here, just out of reach, above birds, borne on their wings, wind-patterned,
fashioned by snow and sand from desert oceans, ice fields, forests of cloud-trees, frost ferns.
Night and day are cradled there, the stars, moonlight silver and sun-gold.
We reach up to mould malleable cloud to our fancies, our fears, never touching their self-creation.
Feet tethered by unseen currents to clay and the rippling pelt of the earth, we yearn for weightlessness, to overcome the mockery of birds.
Perhaps we should learn to love what we have, the green, the blue, the flower-carpet, the columned cathedral-treed, the river-running and ocean-lapping.
Penultimate day of Paul Brookes’ challenge. You can see the cloud photographs that inspired this poem here.
How can we bear to raise our eyes to the oceans and icefields above our heads, knowing the immensity of blue and white worlds washing from horizon to horizon, where winds blow with feathers in their wings?
Knowing, we watch instead the ground and where we tread, fixed on self, the sky too heavy, pregnant with import, omens, reflected wisdoms to heed.
My poem is inspired by all three cloud photographs. You can see them on Paul Brookes’ blog here.
Walking the sands of the sky, treading the blue and the white, we peer through the glassy glare of this reflected light, to see the stars of space, their five-pointed glitter, fill our dim-deep earthy pools.
Very late with this one for Paul Brookes’ challenge. The inspiration is Gaynor Kane’s photo. You can see all the photos here.
There are words, Firenze, Brunelleschi, Duomo, Palazzo, Uffizi, Arno, Medici, Buonarroti, azzurro, like waves of the sea that lap the edge of memory, ring bright as bells and drift from then to now, almost tangible, not lost, but insubstantial as cloud wisps.
I wish, I dream, I will go back one day, just to hear the sounds, smell the scents and feel another sun upon my face.