Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 18

You, I and the river

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.

Wet day, end of winter

Wet day, end of winter

Wind stutters and fails,
a fishbone in the throat.
Birds twitter. Chaffinches.

In the failing, the rain held
at bay drops in drizzles, cold
and steel grey-green water tones,

spits its scaly annoyance,
damp dragon-squib, spluttering,
while chaffinches twitter.

Nightfall

A continuation of the idea of yesterday’s dverse prompt.

Nightfall

Night wind is the roar
of unseen water courses
beneath dark trees,

and falling rain rushes,
torrents of white wind
beneath the moon,

waterfalling where rocks
bar the path, racing over black teeth
like wind over mountains.

Evocations

For the dverse prompt.

Evocations

1.
High, beyond tree branches,
blue-bedded, cloud-cradled,
the day-star rocks the world
from side to side,
chariot of fire.

2.
Light swarming in silver streams
from moon-fullness,
I stand in the ebbing tide,
foam lapping bare ankles,
phosphor-flamed, dreaming.

3.
Sunken sun highlighted
with fire silhouette, crowns this hill
of the omphalos. Listen to the earth voice
in the crackling flames. Dance until
moonrise.

Spring?

Spring?

This morning, green and blue,
you here, me there,
where wind blows the winter grasses.

This sun, pale gold,
cold as nights in winter,
splinters and breaks,

though the thrushes sing,
winged spring coming,
drumming with hare’s feet

beat of change.

Seasons that rise and fall into place

Seasons that rise and fall into place

Darkness between the trees where flowers blow,
winds too cold, too warm, whip earth too dry
beneath racing clouds that have seen the sea.

Birds drift, not singing in the not-knowing
if this is spring, or if the winter teeth are still
primed to spring in the cold wolf-trap.

Clouds drift dark, sky-colour leached
limestone pale, such weight never falling,
and the birds twitter, not knowing.

I watch the uncertain sky full of wind,
cold then warm, and beneath the wind-fingers
that stroke the shivering grass, the spring rises

in long-eared majesty. Along the hedge,
meadow-racing, the hares play, intense as gods
creating the world, and I know as much as I need.

March 8

On several previous years, I have pointed out that March 8 is International Women’s Rights Day, not International Women’s Day. This is the first year I have noticed that the ‘Rights’ part of the title has been removed almost everywhere. Apart from a few countries, notably France and Québec, today has become, like Mothers’ Day, hearts, flowers and chocolates day, exactly what the title ‘Women’s Rights’ was devised to avoid.

I see that Air Algeria is offering reduce-priced tickets to ladies today, and I suppose lots of clubs will be offering a free pass or a free drink to girls. Shops in the UK have special one-day offers running on table linen and other household prettiness that women covet. Sweet, isn’t it? I’m sure that 51% of the population are so grateful for this one day out of the 365 when they get a pat on the back and a bunch of flowers.

Meanwhile, the UN reports that the equality gap between men and women has increased globally, women’s rights have regressed. The pay gap hasn’t gone, and opinions in many European countries on rape, and whether it can be justified, are appalling.

Women’s rights movements in France insist on keeping the original name for today because equal rights for women and girls have still not been won even is so-called enlightened democracies, and also perhaps, because France has a lot more work to do in this area than many of them.

My thoughts for today are with the women fighting for basic human rights in Iran, the women oppressed and terrorised into silence and invisibility in Afghanistan, the girl children forced into marriage by religious cults the world over. The rest of it, the hearts and sparklies, are just insults to our intelligence.

March dawn haibun

The hares are back!

This house sits on the side of the hill, where it has sat for hundreds of years, as the cracks widen, plants push through the walls, and water courses rise through the floor, mice tunnel down through the beams. March days, hares run the meadow grass, high-skipping back and forth. Nights, foxes watch the windows for sleep and darkness to reclaim their rights.

Winter clings close
to the cold ground hugging
Its bare bones.

Gaspard de la Nuit

For the dverse prompt.

Gaspard de la Nuit

In the ocean sky dwells Gaspard of the night,
custodian of eternal jewel-stars,
moon-pendant, comets and meteors
trailing fiery tails through the dark.

Nights of no moon, Gaspard counts the stars
in deep sea caves, tracing constellations
with miser’s fingers,
darkness hoarding celestial light.