Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 28
January 22, 2023
17. (seven lines)
17.
The air swells
too cold to taste
fills the space
with frozen rain
the sky with dirty grey
day sheds no light
on this deep dark sadness.
January 21, 2023
Drawing in
Drawing in
Cold draws them closer
than they would like,
birds the daytime
after scattered seed,
night the fox, the cat,
stealthy round the barn;
where food bowls wait,
round and full,
by the door, where oak leaves
pile beneath the roses,
deer that scrape
the brown drifts,
where the water
runs swift and shallow,
or lies muddy among the vines,
rooting pigs,
and at the window,
closing shutters
on the night’s ice-crystal
breath, the stars.
Dead days
The Oracle feels the winter too. Once again the rose is the symbol of hope.
Dead days
I want there to be music, not this ache
just beneath the light that never shines,
not the bitterness of tongues
that cannot form words of compassion,
those men who place a finger to their lips.
The lake is bleak today, gunmetal grey,
mirroring the light that never shines,
full of cold breath and water running
to the sea, beneath a canopy of ice.
The moon is dead, turned into the cold night,
and frost-mist rises around our feet,
one with the sky, cloud-fog filling
our dreamless sleep.
The roses too sleep within their frozen buds,
licked and furred with hoarfrost,
dreaming of the light that shone and will shine.
They will not recall these dead days.
January 19, 2023
16. (seven lines)
16.
Black pheasant
pecks his way
between green orchid rosettes
and rotting chicory stalks.
Winter sky opens pours.
This peacock with meagre tail
was never meant to endure snow.
Snowing
Snowing
Snowing, the grey sky hangs
hawk-hover low, untied
from misty moorings, loosed
like lost lovers untried,
green. Will they find their way
where waits the sun, glowing
gold, bright the grass they tread
though the sky is snowing?
January 18, 2023
Musing on a cold night
Musing on a cold night
So much cold in this winter light,
swathes of stars in a winter night,
I hold my breath.
For nights are long and short the days
of swirling mist not summer haze,
small feathered death.
I pluck a star, a white-rimed leaf,
that fell to earth from velvet sky,
I feel its grief
for all that’s lost and nothing found
and time’s a thief, we watch it fly
without a sound.
If snow
We had a brief flurry of snow here. Neither of the dogs wanted anything to do with it.
If snow
If snow falls
flakes flying
white against a bleak sky
if we watch their
streaming not unlike
silver streaks of rain
if flakes melt
at the touch of grass or mud
did it really snow?
15. (seven lines)
15.
A small bird
beats against the rain
drops too heavy
for fragile feathers
the silence reminds me
how long it is
since I heard a thrush singing.
January 17, 2023
Lacrimosa
For the dverse prompt, a loose sort of a sonnet. This coldest time of the year is when the Mozart Requiem haunts, coming up to the anniversary of Wolfie’s death.
Lacrimosa
Winter, the dead time,
when leaves long-withered
and stripped by gales, rot
beneath the frost, rime
on every dry leaf,
and ice crusts the puddles
in cart ruts, bitter
and sharp as grief.
Beyond the winter window, snow
fell, softening sharp black angles,
on the hearse with stamping horses,
stars on black veils. Below,
winter snow fell in frozen tears,
as you joined the music of the spheres.
14. (seven lines)
14.
There is rain across the meadow
cold rising from the floor
and the light is full of dim water.
I am cold watching the rain
streaming across the meadow
and your face blurred
with distance and longing.
