For Ronovan’s haiku challenge.
spring gold against
winter lead the balance tips
first swans glide nesting
Tag: Spring
Still chill
The north wind is still blowing hard here and temperatures have plummeted, down to I°C last night and only reaching 14°C in a blustery sun and cloud. Everything is suffering. Some of the grape vines have wilted in the cold, and the pyramid orchids that shouldn’t really have been out yet.
Last night we brought some of the army of plants waiting to be planted into the porch for shelter and today have been planting out some of the more vulnerable plants: four roses, a honeysuckle, one of the hydrangeas, a passion flower, a mock orange and an apple tree. It’s the tip of the iceberg. I took the photo a couple of weeks ago. The plant family has grown considerably since then and the porch is so full now you can’t walk across it.
Chill strikes deep
tender growth cutting
a scythe
before haymaking time.
Limp the flowers now
that bloomed too soon
and silent the hedge
where new things chirruped and mewled.
A handspin too far too hard
the breath of wind too cold
and spring turns inward
retreats what can
furls what was spread
face to the sun
and waits for better days.
ink sweat and tears
Morning
Morning
specked with gold
dappled with the light and shade
of orioles’ calls
the rich rolling taste
of warm sun
on night damp grass
spreads beneath the shadows
trembles grass stalks
sings through the watery roots
of marguerites
in the supple soprano
of the tireless nightingales.
Between storms
between storms
the meadow blooms
unperturbed
impassive deer browse
while thunder rocks the sky
until I appear
thistledown races
on the wind’s back—heralds
of the next storm
Noisy quiet
In this puddled field
cricket-blithe after the rain
where frogs rattle and croak deep in grass-hung ditches
I hear the lowing of cattle long gone,
a plaintive moan blowing between the trees
dripping from spring-hazed branches of a different time.
Woodpecker remembers and thrush,
though the hedges are sparse now,
meagre as a cold spring.
They remember days that never ended
carried on the nightingale’s song
moonlit-dancing through the woods.
Silver-dewed and dropped
the field where the pheasant coughs
too shiny new to know anything but triumph
in his hard-won freedom.
For the first nightingale
For the Daily Inkling Midnight prompt.
Clear sky
full of stars
beneath the trees
the air still sun-warm vibrates
with the crickets’ trill
and high
mocking the silent stars
nightingales sing
loud and strong
music cascading from bird throats
full to the brim
with spring.
