Gyrfalcon

A quadrille for the dverse prompt.

Gyrfalcon

Before falls the dark arctic night,
ice-wind moaning
where shattered rocks sprawl,

Gyrfalcon soars, wheels,
sundering the whistling air,
crystal-cold, fierce as hunger.

Life is winter-raw,
white not red,
blood-pulsing beneath the still blue.

Yellow-eyed, all-seeing,
the bird-god enfolds the world
in his wings.

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The hare

A quadrille for dverse.

The hare

At the meadow’s edge I saw, where
the trees make shadows green,
pressed in the grass a form, hare
left showed where he had been.

The morning quiet’s broken,
by gunshot, eager sounds
of hunters’ sharp words spoken
and the belling of their hounds.

and the whole poem.

The hare

At the meadow’s edge I saw, where
the trees make shadows green,
pressed in the grass a form, hare
left showed where he had been.

The morning quiet’s broken,
by gunshot, eager sounds
of hunters’ sharp words spoken
and the belling of their hounds.

Are they looking for the wild thing
that rested by the hedge,
where the blackbirds and the thrush sing,
and the breeze sighs in the sedge?

Will they take the deer path, follow
tracks lost in the tangled trees,
or will they find the grassy hollow
where my hare rests? Hide him, please!

I hear the hounds’ wild crying,
voices urging, find the prey,
a russet flash, hooves flying,
of the deer that got away.

When silence falls, jay keeping
watch calls out in thankful praise;
somewhere a hare is sleeping
beneath the Good Ones’ watchful gaze.

Everyone had a gran, only a few of us had mine

For the dverse prompt.

Everyone had a gran, only a few of us had mine

Talk the hind leg off a donkey,
Tea weaker than a Jesuit’s piss,
Living off the pig’s back,
There’s more Paddy Reillys than one,
There’s no show without Punch.

The expressions she used
coloured my life,
painted features on the language,
made it laugh.