Spring songs and rain

Starting another blustery day with a collection of tweet poems from yesterday

 

You cup my face,

as delicately as if I were made of rose petals,

as if I might drift away.

 

Take my hand and I will show you

the colours of the sky,

the colours of the earth,

and the fountain of happiness.

 

Spring pours a torrent of colour,

a rhapsody of perfume,

and gives it to the blackbird

to make an ocean of song.

 

One by one,

tight green buds unfold,

each hard scale reveals tenderness beneath,

unfurling in the golden sun,

rose dawn touched.

 

Rain drums the memories,

a beat of never forgetting.

Sometimes, I fear

the deluge will never end.

I thought I saw you

A twitter poem sequence

I thought I saw you smiling

in the deep water,

your eyes bright pearls of laughter.

I dived so deep

the night grew round me,

and moonlight barred my way.

I dived so deep,

but all I found was starlight

shining on fishscales.

 

I thought I found a perfect pearl

glowing in the sky

I plucked it from the night for you

but when I turned,

hands and eyes full of light,

you had gone,

and the dark was soft with owl’s wings.

 

I thought I heard your heart beat

amid the whispering of the rain,

but only the wind in the sedge replied,

Love dies, the stars remain.

 

 

Lace wings it had, the butterfly

Painting ©Anastasiya Markovich

Lace wings it had, the butterfly,

pale and faded now that summer’s gone

and clings the mud of autumn.

 

Scraps, the colour of pressed flowers,

in the seething autumn earth,

remnants of a summer day.

 

Did the song end or did I stop listening

when the wind blew from the east?

Robin kept the notes for brighter days.

 

Lace and the ripple of music

run through the sodden grass,

and will you be there to chase the sun,

to paint the wings of butterflies

with rainbow songs the robin sang

when the dark is past and spring returns?

Pebbles in the stream

 

The pebble dropped into the stream

may roll down to the ocean vast and blue,

or, like your love, sink forgotten

into weed-choked mud.

 

Rain on stone,

pattering cold from stony sky,

washes the dust and the clinging grime,

washes clean

for memories to build anew.

 

No light in this air,

this day of damp and dinge,

cold clings like a second skin,

fish-tight,

and relentless as the mud-gorged river.

 

Once so clear, the future,

decked with diamonds bright as stars,

dense and dull now as the river,

swollen with sorrowing rain

and the debris of broken things.