Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 66

At Laparade

The place where I live is called the Pays du Confluent, the region where the river Lot joins the Garonne. This morning we went to a one of the villages along the Lot to buy a sink, and came back via Laparade, a fortified settlement, similar to dozens in the area, built some time in the 13th century. One of the things I like so much about this part of the world, it’s pretty, peaceful, and nobody visits it.

At Laparade

Up high behind the stone
of rampart walls
of what was stronghold
a baron’s place of fertile plain

we look down the valley
to the Lot.
Not Camelot
not fairy-built and peopled

but fed with blood and bone
of countless wars,
this place, placid now
where silence rings in swallow-song,
not steel and dying screams,

and the sun beats down
on harvesting and harvested,
on green and growing,
on woodland, river-winding,
the mirror,
I look down,
not breaking.

A day to remember

It’s our wedding anniversary today. We hadn’t prepared anything special, we had a weekend of ‘special’, but we did have a panettone. We made the mistake of leaving it in the kitchen while we ate supper.

Along with three plastic flower pots, only slightly chewed, I found the shredded cellophane wrapping and a few crumbs in Bix’s bed. I hope he enjoyed it.

Each year
another bead
bright as candles and gold-glitter
slips onto the thread
silk that never breaks.

Random word generated poetry

I didn’t have time to do much writing yesterday, so I’m posting a selection of random words now for anyone who wants to use them. I have written a poem, posted below, so those who don’t want to read it yet, please avert your gaze.

In the name of the obscure

We are born unfeathered, blind,
cradled in arms unarmed,
beneath the same skies, trees
and purple sunsets
as the secretive ones.

We grow and walk
these broad lands of roses and thorns,
some tasting apples and honey,
others wary, quick to anger,
carrying thunderbolts in one hand,
a book in the other,

and the fiery rain that falls
reaches into every burrow,
every nest and cradle,
and wrenches the unfeathered
and the blind from unarmed arms

in the name of someone’s father
or prophet or holy ghost,
but not in the name of the fox,
the blackbird, the singing trees,
the purple mountain at sunset,
and not in mine.

Quiet

Today, two of the children were visiting, bringing their talk and laughter. It was a day of chatting of everything and nothing, of singing and laughing and playing with dogs and cats, of walking up through the fields on tracks left by the harvesters following scents and listening to the quiet.

Some things I never tire of, the birds, the sky, walking with the ones I care about, and listening to the world turning slowly on its axis beneath the sun and the stars.

There’s a song thrush singing in the poplars
as the sun goes down,
and the willows are full of warblers
with a few last quiet words.
The sky’s adrift with cloud boats,
grey-hulled with sails of white,
and the blackbirds croon a lullaby
to resign us to the night.

Brigid’s garden

Brigid’s garden

This garden lies
sweet hay-scented, the roses over,
in the arms of tall trees,
bird-hung, bird-sung,
beneath a changing sky.

Light whispers
in diamonds and raindrops,
and the evenings are purple
and dusky gold.

Night is just a shadow,
the sun never sleeps,
and the moon sings in reflected glory,
a cradle a soft smiling face.

Don’t ask me why the petals fall,
yet rock remains,
just follow where she treads,
watch the flowers grow red
through the mist of her passing.

An instant of morning

An instant of morning

In the cool of the hallway
terracotta-flagged
pale light falling
through the small morning window
padding of dog paws behind me
I open a door
and for a moment
a swallow-swoop
the smell of childhood.

Rain and sunflowers

Rain and sunflowers

In all the fields that stretch about,
sunflowers raise their heads and shout,
The summer’s called us, look, we’re here!

The light that quivers on the pelt
of running dogs, the morning felt,
the gaze of distant watching deer.

In all the skies above, beyond,
the light is blue with feathers donned,
a silent heron on the mere.

And I awake to hear the rain,
rattling on the window pane,
and know this earth so rich, so near.

Deer morning

The photo is one from last autumn. I couldn’t take one this morning as I didn’t want the dogs to notice them…

Deer morning

Early morning
window opens
onto golden sun slanting low
catches red gold animal fire
ambling of two young deer
through the willows

gentle-eyed as cows
black-lined soft
their gaze meets mine
unafraid in their
warm-blooded grace.

Woodpecker battery and oriole chorus
fall silent in my head
green and gold hush
pools in stillness
water-dazzle in the long grass
beyond the stubble

where hooves step
heads lowered grazing
long ears twitching
and I watch
always from the outside
or the inside
always from another side
always émerveillée.

Bechbretha

A bee poem for the 30DaysWild challenge. Also posted to @TopTweetTuesday.

Bechbretha

Bee
bumbled and brass-banded
buzz-bombasting the borders
humming humble bee hymns
to the honeysuckle
hollyhocking the sun

fuzzed fighter
pollinator
bee-bandit zorro of the zinnias

I have searched
with Aengus and Fintan
for that bee-loud glade of yours
where I might live

but some truths are only dreams
and Brigid’s honey
has a taste of the otherworld.

Footprints

For yesterday’s 30DaysWild prompt. Late.

Footprints

We tread this earth
too heavy
with careless steps
denying our feet of clay.

And in our wake
we leave a trail
of broken stalks
petals crushed and bleeding

a trail of used discarded things
carcases of unnecessary whims

a trail of microscopic death
pathogens carcinogens

a blackberry trail
sweet and dark
though who sees more
than briar thorns?