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
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
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.
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
Just got Internet back (again). The OctPoWriMo prompt, about ways of looking at things just about works for the triolet I wrote yesterday.
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.
wind in the poplars
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
leaves crystal drops on window panes
from cloud to herringbone cloud
the ocean sky swims
with shoals of light
halos of rain-promise
A tanka for Ronovan’s weekly haiku prompt.
Painting by Rajasegar
sky empties of rain
dry rivers flow again
from dust to sea
red leaves weave with silver fish
the cycle complete
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.