Night murmurs

Night murmurs

Across the stream a deer barks
as the twilight shadows grow,

and deep dark springs from beneath
trees, their branches reflecting

moonlight when clouds part—a pale
owl drifts, calling to its ghosts.

What songs do we hear of nights?

This started off as a sijo with 14-syllable lines, split into two lines of seven syllables. I added a seventh line of seven syllables just to make it a complete run of sevens. And the illustration is once again Kerfe’s splendid owl.

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34. (seven lines)

`I had a look at the next set of tiles and found these seven lines. The Redon is exactly right.

34.

Night scatters stars
like sea spray caught by sunlight,
to fill our sleep with their music,
violins and owl flutes,
the gruff beat of deer bark,

and shadows are shot with the light
of night-opening flowers.

Migraine sequence (seven lines)

1.

Daylight
though it throbs
stabs behind the eyes
is still a release from the dark
and the twittering
flickering dreams
of horror and pain.

2.

Rain falls in gentle showers
from blue and white skies
barely tarnishing the gold of dandelions
the sheen of green shoots

and the indigo spears
of midnight muscari
stand unchanged.

3.

Deranged visions crash finally
into damp earth
drip from glossy leaves
sun-glittering
and I can pick out the warblers’ song

the woodpeckers stare quizzically
waiting for me to leave.

33. (seven lines)

33.

Canals are straight, the water green,
still, and trees bend their heads
to buttress the rain-heavy air.

We walk in straight lines, the way
the wind blows, and the trees bow,
and the clouds stream,
listening to the thrushes sing.

Spring rain (seven lines)

Spring rain

The garden is a symphony of song,
bird-voices beneath the rain,
of roots crying out to the roses,
buds dreaming of spring.

Sadness enfolds the still lake,
where winter chill clings, and
swans glide, dreaming of the open sea.

32. (seven lines)

32.

This morning is bright
as a magpie’s eye
with frost-cold frilling still water

though the yellow sun
dabs dandelion eyes open
and sings spring green
in the throat of the thrush
.

31. (seven lines)

31.

Cranes, night-flying
over the house,
louder than the owls’
low crooning,

the only roisterers out late,
rowdies rolling home after the party,
to be guided by the stars.

30. (seven lines)

30.

Bise sings its cold monotone,
veiled threats of wolves from the north,
sea spray in their mouths,
steel-clawed.

No ships come here, no dragons,
but the wind bites the same,
spring driven upon the shoals of perhaps.

29. (seven lines)

29.

Cold is beautiful,
a misted Corot touched with russet
of last year’s leaves,

and the frost’s white grip
loosens in the sun,
in the warm wing-flutter of songbirds
and the stirrings of spring.

28. (seven lines)

28.

The birds are singing now,
bringing colour to the mornings,
acrobats among honeysuckle flowers,

careless of coming cold,
ignorant of the world’s grey,
the concrete and cars,
the steel casings of munitions.