Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 41

Cloudshapes day 19

A poem inspired by Gaynor Kane’s photo. You can see all of today’s photos on Paul Brookes’ blog here.

I know path and laugh don’t rhyme, but it’s close (and it’s late).

Northern ice

When the ice of the north
meets the blue of the south,
and the black rocks are bitter
as salt in the mouth,

I will look for a billowing
sail or a wing,
to carry me out
to where Selkie folk sing.

Where the white gulls are calling
about the black reef,
and the dark night is falling,
cold creeps like a thief,

I will follow the path
of the seal folk that ride
the wild breakers and laugh
as they dance in the tide.

Five badger songs

The Oracle gave me these. I don’t feel peaceful, but she probably knows that.

Five badger songs

1
The birds
sing less and less
sky a mist of shadows
this light too dim to see
forests—we wait
for spring.

2
Shanties
sea songs gull-screamed
dancing across wild waves
borne on the seals’ hoarse bark
follow the stars
to me.

3
Gardens
are winter-sad
rose music is silent
dreaming of better days
remembering
bee-song.

4
Raining
on the river
where fish swim regardless
dim waterworld soaring
where weed-wisps wave
like clouds.

5
Night dark
only starlight
on the lake pale glitter
aeons away falling
soft as summer
raindrops.

Cloudshapes day 18

For Paul Brookes’ challenge. You can see the photo by Julian Day that inspired the poem here.

When the winter king

When the winter king blows cold,
frost-breath furring the roof,
even the clouds crack like black ice,

gold in his crown stolen
from the failing sun, while
we hunch before the fire,

ruffled and fearful as pigeons,
cold to the marrow
of our slender bones.

Fireless

Fireless

Barely leaves a mark
on the day, a yellow smear
behind thin cloud,

low, tired, the sun burns out,
heaving itself over
the tree-lined horizon.

No burning these damp days
of leaf-sodden twilight,
no fire in the sky.

Twig-black cracks,
wind rising, scattering last crows,
and we hold

our summer-warm pebbles
tight as talismans,
smooth as new eggs.

Giants

For the earthweal prompt.

Giants

Prehistoric grass
grown tall
straight
a thousand years in ringed
whorls and rune-bark.

Deep-dug fingers
grasp the earth
holding this planet together
with woven lifelines.

Old and older
ancient as pyramids are ancient
molecules fallen from the stars
reassembled into giants
fallen again
perhaps forever
at the hands of puny pigmei.

Cloudshapes day 17

Another intriguing cloudshape from Julian Day which you can see on Paul Brookes’ blog here.

Hunting

If there were a wild hunt
it would be wild wolf-led
and I would follow

through high tide and gale
through tempest
and boiling clouds

cheek by wolf jowl
the hunting of the moon
the netting of the stars.

Cloudshapes Day 16

This poem is inspired by Julian Day’s photo. You can see it on Paul Brookes’ blog post here.

Silence

The sun is a whale’s eye
great blue
grey as waves on the ocean sky.

Shipwrecks below
thin voices rising
do you hear, do you care?

Grey waves break
timbers splinter in silence
le silence de la mer.

You wink and dive
taking Ahabs and von Ebrennacs
beyond the broken horizon

where perhaps the gulls
will have pity
and answer their questions.

Days with no sense

For dverse.

Days with no sense

Days when nothing turns right
the light the cloud-gloom
the falling leaves
the shots in the wood
the wailing of dogs
the flight of deer across the grass
with no one to see
and weep except me.

No sound in the evening
though I listen for owls
only the chat haret
with her hoarse not-quite-mew
and the drip of cold raindrops
from the eaves
though the sky is clear
and the North star glitters
indiscriminately

while missiles fall like November snow
and no haven is safe
because no one listens.

Cloudshapes day 15

A double badger’s hexastitch. The photos are here (trying to catch up).

The white breast feathers of a swan

Sky full
of the first things
feathered lizards scaled birds
blue mirror reflections
all that ever
crawled flew

soared seas
winged through oceans
breasted the high currents
white-plumed and rainbow-scaled.
On the still pool
wild swan.

Gyrfalcon

A quadrille for the dverse prompt.

Gyrfalcon

Before falls the dark arctic night,
ice-wind moaning
where shattered rocks sprawl,

Gyrfalcon soars, wheels,
sundering the whistling air,
crystal-cold, fierce as hunger.

Life is winter-raw,
white not red,
blood-pulsing beneath the still blue.

Yellow-eyed, all-seeing,
the bird-god enfolds the world
in his wings.