dverse, another excuse to listen to the new Abba songs.
They said they were stuck in a groove
those times were past,
like youth, a place of memories.
They said they’d never have it in them,
but they showed us we remain
the children we once were,
and our music never dies
Where skylark trills,
beneath the grass, on bare stone hills,
in sky that soars on swallows’ wings, there is a beating heart that sings.
Where blackbird sings, the hedges fills,
the stream’s bright source in silver springs, earth’s pulse, her beating heart still sings.
ancient streams of lost-star memories.
Down the pane
rain streams—beyond the world’s a water-blur.
Beneath the poplars
the only sound stream-babble
They tumble-stream the words
a river flowing ni queue ni tête
After the fête
littered happiness lies in streamered joy.
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
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.
A quadrille for the
now spreads broad-leafed branches,
in a complex origami of curl-petaled bloom,
gallops the hillside,
a russet-red leaper,
pads the night paths,
a russet-tailed chancer,
milky-soft, pink and unfocused, learning by the moment, gallop-growing, unfurling beauty, were once a microscopic seed.
A quadrille for EJ and the dverse prompt.
unnatural spills soaks up the sound of soughing trees.
Where did the wind go with its ranting
threads of voice wolf-cried ululations roaring chimneys keyhole-whistles?
Raced over the hill and far away
until a distant dog bells echoing the long goodbye.
Sun sinks through broken and bruised
purple cloud, pink flushed, and the grey of day flames in riots of fierce light.
Water rises through grass roots,
trees bow in wind’s embrace, yet perched crow’s-nest high, swaying with the storm’s wings, a thrush still sings.
Is this the way?
So many waving arms and shouting faces,
so many truths where one would be enough.
I walk the hard path, slip-shod, where eagles fly,
see the painted sky, the running deer, the tawdry remnants fit only for a magpie’s nest.
To continue the fishy theme, a quadrille for the
a large small family to feed
and an ocean of fish
we would buy
orphie with green bones rouget grondin with its duck-beaked snout and limande dab flat fish round as a serving dish generous enough for all
those days are gone.