Wild

The Wildlife Trust is running a challenge through June to do one ‘wild’ thing a day. Paul Brookes is calling for poems, prose, artwork on the things we do or can do to benefit wild things and nature.

You can read my poem Apologies that Paul was kind enough to publish on his blog here.

Night and the river

This week I could really do with a little balm, sweet soothing music etc. It’s been tough and tiring. I looked to the oracle, but she’s not one to spout to order. Unfortunately. I tried each word set, and ended up with a mixed bag.

 

Storm chants madlyScreen Shot 2017-05-27 at 14.42.26

with a bitter death cry,

rain water runs away

into the lake,

no sun in the sky

pours luscious light

and purple shadows

about these whispered dreams.

 

 

I listen to your lies,Screen Shot 2017-05-27 at 14.56.47

you kiss with marble lips,

we never find peace.

Like ghosts,

we embrace in the dark,

fever hot,

red as my secrets.

 

 

We two belong togetherScreen Shot 2017-05-27 at 15.23.12

in the dream of the stars.

Listen, as the world grows old,

our time plays out.

Fulfill your wish,

take me with you

along the river of night.

 

 

Always beautiful,Screen Shot 2017-05-27 at 15.34.52

bird,

wild soul of the wind,

follows the sun

dawn to dusk,

spring to winter frost;

like the river,

wild.

Cat cries

Photo ©Monsieur McChickenpants

chaussettes

Cat cries

Sleek, a special model,

In the dark tunnels of her thoughts,

A swallow-flitting urge,

Velvet soft as deep forests,

Half grasped, a picture of a time

So long ago,

To creep, belly to ground,

Follow the faint scuttle skitter tracks

Of field mouse,

To climb, silent as death and pounce,

Crush warm brown feathers,

Taste the blood

And fill an empty belly.

Cat cries,

Stomach stretched tight with cold, grey mush,

And the window glass shines brightly

Instead of pale daylight on lake water.

Dancing

The Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt provides five words to incorporate in a poem. Sometimes, I don’t get on with the words at all, and it takes a lot of work to fit them all in. Sometimes they just jump into line of their own accord. This week was one of those times. The words are

BRAVE – TEND – PURE – LEAD – DANCE

franz_von_stuck_ringelreihen

Brave are those, or foolhardy,

Who let the pure ones lead them in the dance.

For the pure have no hearts,

Their souls are cloud wisps,

And their eyes of lake water

Are cold and deep enough to drown in.

I will dance with the wilderness,

Fire-furred and velvet-padded,

Where the river tends its own banks and the sea its shore,

Sing larksong with temerity and abandon,

Soar on wings strong as the bones of the mountain,

Take the hands scented with rose and the yellow gorse,

And never let them go.

Microfiction: Gardening

Today’s word from the Daily Post is ‘diverse’. Diverse is a term that’s getting a lot of air time lately. I’ll leave the more weighty definitions to other people and play with the more frivolous.

1024px-Rippl_Anella_and_Lazarine_among_Flowers

 

Irene was a gardener. Not like Fred Sutcliff next door who thought a garden was a square of green grass with a border of tea roses round it, and not like Enid Butler who thought a garden was what you had to get rid of if you wanted to keep cars. Irene had green fingers. She dug and mulched and composted. She took cuttings, split and grafted. She made raised beds, rockeries, herb squares and sunken water gardens. Every square inch was planted with something. She knew exactly where each plant would do best, and when it proved to be a stubborn bugger that didn’t conform to type, she moved it until it was satisfied.

Irene’s George had been more like Fred Sutcliff, but he had learned to leave her to the gardening and had stuck to his wood carving instead. Now George had passed on, but the garden was going from strength to strength. It became Irene’s private world.

Irene had a grand daughter, Julie. She had several grand daughters but Julie was the one who liked to have her own bit of garden to dig in. Irene encouraged her, giving her bits of geranium to plant, the odd packet of seeds. She explained which colours went best together, how to plant borders with the tall flowers at the back. Julie listened, and she dug, fed worms to the robin, caught slugs and tipped them over the hedge into Fred Sutcliff’s garden when he was out, and she watched the flowers grow.

Julie’s mother thought it was a funny sort of occupation for a little girl, but she was indulgent, and for Julie’s sixth birthday she gave her a miniature set of gardener’s tools, plant pots and a great armful of packets of seeds. The flowers in the pictures were dazzling, every possible colour imaginable. Julie was entranced.

“You’re lucky, being an April baby.” Irene beamed at her. “We’ll be able to plant out your seeds straight away. We’ll see what your mum’s chosen, and I’ll have a think about where they look best.”

Irene helped Julie clear her corner of the garden, pointed out which seeds should be planted where, which ones weren’t really suitable, and left her to it. It was June before she realised that Julie had gone beyond her remit. Julie’s flowers weren’t obvious at first, growing randomly among the carefully chosen borders and arrangements. But as they gained in size and confidence, and especially as they came into flower, Irene realised the enormity of what her grand daughter had done. Pale pink sweet peas clambered among the bright orange of monbretia, red poppies danced through purple phlox, bold flames of nasturtiums swallowed the delicate blue geraniums. Everywhere colours clashed. The discordant tones of creepers crawled among the delicate spires of lilies, through the rose trees, rambled down the rockeries.

“Look,” Julie said, pointing to the nasturtiums that climbed to her head height along the thorny stems of a pink rose. “Aren’t they pretty?”

“It’s a mess!” Irene said. “They’re all in the wrong places. You can’t mix colours together like that. And you can’t let them climb where they want either.”

“Why not?”

“Because…it doesn’t look right, all those different heights and colours growing next to one another.”

“They do in the field.”

“Exactly! A field is wild. This is a garden.”

Julie gave her grandmother a disappointed look. “I like wild best.”

A bee buzzed past. On its way to the rose, it sampled a sweet pea.

“See,” Julie said. “So do the bees.”

Peregrines

The_Tuileries_Gardens_Paris_by_Edouard_Vuillard

 

Along the promenade

Between gracious quayside buildings

And the broad majestic river

A pair of falcons swooped low across the path

With shrill otherworldly cries

Like ghostly swallows

Out of season

Out of time

Their savage beauty out of place

Amid the tame scenery

Of gaudy municipal flowerbeds.