I got this sonnet style poem from the Oracle this morning.
I sit in shadows cast by half-seen dreams
That drip their honeyed light on thirsty ground.
Though storms play, twisting skeins of feathered cloud
And threading them with rain, I close my eyes,
See only summer ocean, swallow-tossed,
with waves of darting blue and lightning forked.
There are roses still that climb the house about,
And songs still sung from tree to sighing tree
In the ancient shining tongues that only
Birds know, sweet and sad, rose-red and raw
With premonitions of the whispered cold,
The bare bones shifting of a year grown old.
It will come the end, hill-stalking black and stark,
Yet in the deepening sky soars spring, the lark.
For the dverse prompt. Hoping this new editor is going to behave itself. And will it keep the formatting? I should make a book… Fifth try. Sixth.
I remember when we could enjoy the heat
and savoured cool beneath the trees,
the running stream.
I remember when the blackbird sang
all summer long a summer song,
and we lazed, pink-skinned
beneath the hedge where berries hung,
~but that was before~
the rains came rare and late
or early and too hard too much,
and now the trees hang dying heads,
and rattle dry-leafed branches
where no bird sings, throats too parched,
no strength to waste in beauty,
and we wonder what the spring will bring.
through flesh and bone
chasing memories of cold and damp
and the darkness
of a night of no moon
cool grass glistens
and a chiff chaff
in the sleepy morning hedge
where the boundaries are green and leafy
and the stream runs lower as heat rises
we stand on the edge
of vertiginous summer
Haymaking was put off for three weeks which is what I wanted, to let all the wildflowers finish and set seed first. The hay is now all raked into an interesting geometrical pattern like a Neolithic temple site, waiting for the baler to come.
This is the west meadow looking south
East meadow looking west. The red and white tape is to cordon off an area where saplings are planted.
The south section looking up towards the house.
The part I like best, the bottoms where the willows are, a section about 20 metres by 200 metres that isn’t mown and is just left to its own devices.
I wrote this gogyohka this morning and discovered that Paul Miltaru had posted a photograph to accompany it. Thank you, Paul for letting me borrow it.
the wind blows hot and fierce
bringing only dry-leaf rain
to this parched land
you can hear the earth gasp
long grasses sweet bedstraw
a slight depression barely hid—
Heat rises from baked earth,
sighs in whisper of thistledown and butterfly wings,
bathes in gold the green beneath
more and more relentless blue,
seeps in the sweet, ripe smell of bird-pecked figs.
flickering the shadowed sunlight where
a blackbird sings softly, a trio of notes,
listening in vain
for stream babble
to finish the line.
life pulse, the silent wingbeats
of a grey heron.
Another day of fierce weather brewing,
Trees moan above the meadow-ocean,
Where rippling stalks, seed-heavy sway,
Searching for a sun not there.
Behind the window glass,
We hear the wind break
In a lament
For Ronovan’s weekly prompt.
Sage and thyme sun-bask
while vine drapes a pergola—
summer scented leaves.