Moon flight

A quadrille for dverse.

Moon flight

There is a certain light
at the start and ending of the night
grey pale as doves in flight.

There is a type of love
that soars on moon-pale wings above
the stars, feathered nestling-soft, a dove,
and it fits us like a glove.

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Silver songs

For the dverse prompt.

Silver songs

When you are sleeping deep, and night
is full of stars and tender light,
my lips will breathe into your ear
words only your heart’s pulse will hear;
don’t fear the dark, the moon’s fierce beams,
for I will wrap you in my dreams.

Nature worship

A trio of cinquains for the dverse quadrille prompt.

Nature worship

Cool green
celebrant of
tree praise, the stream ambles,
strumming root and fallen branch with
music.

Skywards,
the poplars rise,
oriole-filled, silent
in the crushing heat, except for
leaf-hiss

and the
warbler’s ceaseless
song, soft as rain-patter,
building epic nest myths in the
quiet.

We hear what we want to hear

For dverse.

We hear what we want to hear

I hear their paper-voices in the wind,
entangled with an ocean swell of tears,
the rustle of the sedge, a child’s soft plea,
the jangled torrent of her mother’s fears.

Within the rubble, I hear dying cries,
some choose to trust more palatable lies.

At the end of the night

For the dverse quadrille prompt.

Painting by Edvard Munch

At the end of the night

At the end of the night, pale light streams
from silver mists, the setting moon,
on star-filled waves moon-echo gleams.

As earth rolls into the new day growing,
the wind that blows the shadows away
is the clean salt wind from the ocean blowing.

Night, no moon

For the dverse prompt. A double wayra quadrille.

Night, no moon

Night enveloped
in the darkness of no moon,
slumbering, the fields return
to the wild folk, foxes
and timorous deer, leaf-grazing.

When no one watches
the hedge-paths, the meadow-paths,
the tracks made by furtive steps,
badger digs, deer nibble
lusciousness, springing just for them.

A musing

For dverse.

A musing

Strange,
for the Greeks, the Muses were women,
when women produced nothing but children,
had no voice but to sing lullabies.

Strange,
men pay such them homage,
for inspiring superior intellects,
to produce what simple women never could.

Strange,
but then again,
perhaps not.

Estincelle

For the dverse prompt

Estincelle

that spark from a feu de joie,
scintillating string of stelle in night skies,

étincelle that blazed from tree to tree
in the deep midwinter,
leaving frozen strands of ice-fire

jingling on shivering boughs, silvered
in tinsel-bedecked holly-halls,
glittering in the fire-crackling festive dark.

Of all

A second quadrille for dverse. (It was husband’s birthday yesterday).

Of all

Of all the times, the cities wide,
with all the places you could hide,
I found you, met your eyes that night.

Of all the ones who might have been,
the rivers crossed, the mountains seen,
you wear the crown, my life, my light.

First and last

For dverse.

First and last

Night comes last to the crown of the hill,
first to the shadows below,
a ring of stars shines in the dark sky,
wedding midnight and dawn with its glow.

Fox sniffs the dark, earth-scented and cold,
hears vixen bark, this night’s growing old.