Gogyohka: autumn rain

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I look for light where there is none,

taste the wind

for a salt memory of the sea

and touch the wild grasses

for the fleeting presence of a hare

 

wind blows

full of damp grey ribbons of cloud

streaks and shafts of steely grey

rain-wet and dew-wet

and a scattering of noisy finches

 

dusk seeps and creeps

beneath the cloud

between the rain drops

among the raggedy grass soldiers

still standing

Blue wind

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This wind full of sheets of rain

pounds the house

as waves pound a cliff face,

and the air fills with the red roar of sea horses,

bucking blue and green as the deeps,

always too elusive to catch

in these sodden meadows

even with the eye of longing.

November

autumn1

days of wind and lashing boughs

rain slanting from shifting sky

colour of winter half-dark

filling the ditches with running cold

where frost needles will grow

 

light the stove

and listen to the flames

singing of old tree days

and green springs

filled with bird-flutter

 

chimney-wind echoes hollow

among the bricks

tree-wind rattles rain from wet boughs

and the solemn tweeting

of chaffinches

Grey-leafed

Just got Internet back (again). The OctPoWriMo prompt, about ways of looking at things just about works for the triolet I wrote yesterday.

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This sky is heavy with grey-leafed cloud

And rests on tree tops, dusty blue,

Waiting to pour its river loud.

The sky is heavy with grey-leafed cloud,

Branching, spreading over ploughed

And empty fields where barley grew.

This sky is heavy, and grey-leafed cloud

Rests on treetops misty blue.

Gogyohka for light rain

Moon

wind in the poplars

hisses sea-whispers

and booms over the hills

with the bellowing notes

of the organ of the deeps

 

rain on the meadow

falls a flurry of steely grey

tossed by the wind

moving on

leaves crystal drops on window panes

 

moon tossed

from cloud to herringbone cloud

the ocean sky swims

with shoals of light

halos of rain-promise

Come the day

I know ‘Ireland’s Call’ gets a lot of flack for being an awful song, but I like it, and as a message for a united Ireland, starting on the sports’ field, written by a Derry man, it does the job. Ireland beat (battered) Scotland this morning, and the tune has been trotting in my head.

 

Come the day and come the hour,

Come the last days of September,

When the leaves are falling thick and fast

Tossed by rolling winds in from the ocean.

Come the storms, their black capes billow

And poplars bowing in the tempest,

When the night is full of the sky’s dark waves,

Hear the parched earth whisper to the raindrops.

Come the dawn and come the morning,

Come the longed for deluge pouring,

Dry tongues lap the rain wished for summer long,

And the earth turns slowly into autumn.