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.

sky5

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.

 

August rain

The Oracle gave me the theme for this one. I think it shows.

 

Rain beats its persistent music

on roof and rippling grass,

misting the meadow,

smearing the window glass.

Light stretches unchanging,

uncontrasted, dull as the sky.

So hard to recall the brilliance of summer sun,

the deep green shade of panting leaves,

the dreams of roses.

Rain

Finally! No storm, but it rained a bit this morning and it’s raining hard now. The froglet army, scores of them was on the march! They aren’t quite as big as the one in the photo but the same species—Agile Frog.

Photo ©Daima Dénes

576px-Rana4_2008

 

Rain

after weeks of sun

baked earth

dry

even clover

brown

curled crisp

and suddenly

beneath tree shade

where ditch and stream

regenerate

water-filling

shrunken grasses creep and

leap with froglife

tiny heroes

returning from the desert.

Rain running

window wet.jpg

 

Morning running with green water-light

and half-light of sunken ditches

where grass lies flattened beneath the battering sky

we listen to water music and birdsong

unstoppable as the rain and life pushing beneath the wet.

Only a breath of wind murmurs

carrying the golden thread the nightingale weaves

and the soughing of rain-heavy boughs

the rest

life death the rolling tide of the unseen stars

is silence.

This is our time

After the seventh night of virtually no sleep and constant pain, the Oracle knows how I feel.

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Here the air is perfumed by concrete,

life-fire, desire long gone.

I remember wild red skies

velvet stars broken in the ocean.

No more breath, my voice fails.

Out, brief candles;

when we wake, you will be

a brilliant blue cloud, colour of peace,

(look, joy is kissed on your lips)

fish-dancing, flying into eternity with me.

This is our time,

the night does not need morning.

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Beneath the never sky

the sea sings so sweetly,

a blue water symphony to love perhaps

or death.

These days, the ache and the wanting

are fierce as moonlight and wind-whispers,

not driven away with the sun.

Yet we still trudge together, you and I,

no milk and honey for us,

into the shadow of the roses,

their petals crushed by the rain.