The ash marks the path that leads to the house caught in its boughs are scraps of blue sky robin-egg blue a pigeon or two where white-wispy cloud’s a-dangle with jays chattering, joyous garrulous gang and all through the bright spring a nightingale sang.
Once there were rainbows seagulls and storm clouds that strung up the sky once we would live like the wind and we’d never say die now there is darkness and colour has seeped into night— howl with the moon the juke’s thin and white.
I didn’t think of this one until this afternoon. In response to the dverse prompt, a quadrille using the word juke.
we loved that wound about the hill is still, though we have gone and left the silent house, the woods and hedges left untended, till the quiet ones return, the hare and mouse, reclaim their night land home. I hope they will.