Cloudshapes day 7

I’m afraid it’s just that time of year. This is in response to Gaynor Kane’s rainbow photo. You can see all three photos on Paul Brookes’ blog here.

Another anniversary

I can never stand beneath
a grey November sky,
where a rainbow’s arc joins here to there,

never watch those receding clouds,
grey, still full of rain, beyond the gleam
that fades before I find the gold,

never look to see a running dog,
paws treading prisms, scattering light,
young again, who was old,

because no matter what they say
and what the heart believes,
I know, he won’t be there.

Since when

Since when

Since when, no records tell
the age of these stones,
the paths trod by those long dead,

forgotten the hands that dug
and planted, herded
and filled the winter barns.

No comfort lingers in these stones,
the floors of terracotta
colour of autumn leaves,
only the chill of damp earth
and a wealth of love and heartache.

Silent as stones,
house sits,
a sentinel on the hillside,
rootless but unyielding,
remembering what has gone,

nodding in the winter sun
at the rainbow path
and those who have taken it,
their padding steps still echoing.

Rainbow’s beginning

 

Against the herd of elephant grey

clouds, bulging with rain,

a path sprang, leaping

from golden grass, a banner,

a bridge of rain-prismed light.

 

I ran through the rain to touch a myth,

I ran brushing damp seed heads

that bent away in gentle mockery,

but rain ran faster,

wiping the sky clean of dreams.

 

Some things are not for us

to have and hold,

to touch only in wishes, but,

beginning or end,

I saw.

Coloured lights

A 99 word flash fiction for Charli Mill’s writing challenge.

Photo©Dominicus Johannes Bergsma

 

 

The puddle in the path reflected like a mirror the tracery of the trees and the sky beyond. I stood on the edge captivated by the still beauty. The sun came from behind a cloud and struck the water, covering the surface with rainbow lights. Diesel, a film of leaked fuel turned the timeless pastoral scene into a surreal nightmare. I raised my head, looked beyond the clouds to the scritch-scratched vapour trails across the blue, smelled the traffic on the road ahead and felt the tree roots curling and straining to find the lifeblood of the dying earth.

Bifrost

A circular poem based on today’s magnetic poem

Quiet as stone falls the light,

bright and glacier cold,

folding the world in clouds of frost.

Bifrost the bridge of violet and blue,

hues of the rainbow,

slowly arching across the sky,

flying on swans’ wings from rooted earth,

berth of sky ships, soaring,

roaring with the winds voice.

Rejoice in this sky-reaching and spanning space,

race, white swans with this dead heart,

part the clouds for I see the journey’s close,

rose scented, blue horses joyful riot,

quiet as stone falls the light.

 

Microfiction #writephoto: Last colours

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto writing challenge. Here’s the pic, that I find very sad.

When the last polar bear was shot in the suburbs of Edinburgh, when sand dunes swallowed Dakar and Cairo, and Lake Baikal was no more than a muddy puddle, the Earth began to shut down. There was no more wilderness to regenerate, wild animals were born sexless and dwindled. Disease and drought shrivelled roots and curled leaves. Doves and swans entwined in the wings of their mates slept and never woke again. When the last blackbird had finished his song, when he cocked his head and silence greeted the dying notes, he too put his head beneath his wing and slept a final sleep.

When the world and all that had made it beautiful was empty, Earth gave a last sigh, and winds stripped the last leaves, moved the last rolling dunes, and whipped the waves into walls of sterile water. Then she in haled, all the gases and fumes, the artificial perfumes, heated air and cooled. One last reminder of what had been lingered, charging the drops of moisture in the dull air with the colours of lost beauty. The Earth drew one last, deep breath and the rainbow sunk, a river of brilliants, into the bare ribs of rock, and darkness fell.

Microfiction challenge Rainbow: the entries

A more peaceful, hopeful painting would be hard to find, but thankfully, we didn’t all see the scene as utter boring heaven.

I’m almost certain Sarah sent an entry but posted it in the wrong place and I can’t find it. Maybe if she looks in she can point me in the right direction.

Thanks to you all for the wonderful pieces of prose you send in. There’ll be another prompt tomorrow, so see you then.

I’m adding Merril’s at the top as I missed it out when I prepared the post yesterday. I could have sworn it wasn’t there then…But I’d commented on it and very much enjoyed it. The Sound of Music again…

From Rainbows: Microfiction | Yesterday and today: Merril’s historical musings

 

Louise’s story might be less dark and tragic than usual, but it’s just as dramatic.

Immortal Rainbow – Fantasy Raconteur

 

Ken’s story is an example of what I was hinting at in the intro—since when have rainbows been associated only with joy and happiness?

A Thing of the Past | rivrvlogr

 

Phylor with the ghost of Maria from The Sound of Music? She’s been cropping up everywhere 🙂

Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction #9: the rainbow – Phylor’s Blog

 

Michael’s story, while light-hearted, is I suspect one of his cherished dreams 🙂

Microfiction challenge #9: Rainbow | Morpethroad

 

Geoff’s story wouldn’t be allowed under many regimes, but this is my blog so I’ll take the risk, and in case of legal problems, yes, I’ll happily pass on his address.

Clash of Egos #microfiction #shortstory | TanGental

 

Leara’s story like Michael’s is a retelling of a timeless myth.

The Treasure At The End Of The Rainbow – LearaWrites

 

Freya is a first-time participant with a dramatic story that packs a punch with a surprising twist in the tail.

Look up! Microfiction Challenge #9 – Rainbow | Freya Writes…

 

Kat’s story is going strong, and with the skill of a true storyteller she slips in the prompt image as a sideline and gets back to the meat of what she had in mind for this episode.

Seasoning – Part 6 | like mercury colliding…

 

Kerfe’s mini story this week is the introduction to a gallery of thoughts and images with a mysterious common theme.

Junk Mail Art: Rainbow

 

Bill—last in so the eerie white space doesn’t matter. I think he should really get a dog.

Bonnie

 

 

 

Microfiction: Rainbow

I decided the story of Else wasn’t over after all.

She ran, the dark poplars swaying and muttering in the wind that had turned chill and raw. The road was familiar though not the road that led from the house in town where Edvard and the child…She gulped back the tears and clenched her teeth on the sob that welled up in her throat. Branches swept low and caught at the hem of her coat. The wind rose higher and plucked at the hood, sending threads of cold to tangle her hair and icy needles to prick her skin.

A flurry of snow blinded her momentarily and she stumbled, falling into the ditch, trapped in a cage of brambles. She lay still, held tight, and the car headlights as they streamed by, picked out nothing in the roadside vegetation.

Her hear beating wildly as she realized how close she had come to discovery, she got to her feet. The brambles had let her go, were now inexplicably behind her, and she was on the edge of a summer field at the other side of the ditch. The knowledge that she was safe hit her as forcefully as the radiant sun. She had passed to the other side of heartache, and in the bird-filled peace, an inner voice told her all she had to do was cross the rainbow to find Edvard again.

Microfiction challenge #9: Rainbow

When I picked this image I was obviously hoping to wring a few happy endings out eventual series. Mine ended last week, but it may bring a little cheer to someone else’s story. The theme is:

After the storm

Please post the link to your story in the comments before next Thursday.

The rainbow at the world’s end

Painting by Archip Iwanowitsch Kuindshi

Red the bloody cloud in the river,

Green the iris spears piercing the mud,

Yellow the celandine creeping so deftly

Over the orange of rusting blades.

Steel grey the rain on the trampled meadow,

Blue the smoke from the funeral pyres,

Purple the haze on the poisoned pools

Where carcasses caracole bloated and pale.

Silver by moonlight the silent lagoon,

Violet by day, a stagnant pool,

Still as the grave at the ocean’s edge,

A pewter cup full of indigo tears.

And pearl the mist that hazes the moon,

On this night of rejoicing beneath the dark stars,

The bright crystal shards rain to dead voices keening,

A myriad lives broken at the rainbow’s end.