Most winter mornings
The cold blue light gives way to lightening skies
Most winter mornings the respite comes
This winter morning light flickers
Before extinguishing
Through a patchwork sky
In flickering array
Cloud studded and ever moving
Landscape of grey
Building and growing
Swelling to fill the wideness of
Big skies
Fingers of spent wind
Clawing the branches of tired trees
Stark is the warning of more to come
Gusts exceeding 50mph
Will rise to 90
Foreboding words
To brace and heed.
Birds are silent
Senses sharp.
Old House :Winter Night
With pulsating rain
The strengthening wind is drawn through
The blackest of nights;
The mist swirls ribbons
Like the jet stream trail
And the windows rattle;
Droplets course down the blackened panes in little streams
Pooling on the ledge
As the latch lifts and falls
And curtains move in oscillating rhythm
While heavy slates lift and drop
Making the whole house strain
Defining its age of ancient years.
It was his Birthday
Written is response to the http://www.ekphrastic.net for the ekphrastic challenge : Van Gogh Starry Night .
It was his Birthday
It was his birthday
When thinking becomes joined up
And is more than black and white
It was his birthday when the
Lines of traffic merged in a continuous Stream somewhere along the A38
When electric blue sent sirens down the Road in rotating motion and
Vapour trails slipped from white to Gold in laminar flow And twisted strands
Merged their course and conjured stars From spun cotton candy
It was his birthday when the sky turned Dark and the trees took
Shapes of chess pieces mid game. And flecks of white blew clouds from Stranded cars Into darkness
And he was still not home
It was his birthday.
Spring in abeyance
Winter holds the signs of spring in abeyance
Daffodils nod to the strengthening wind
Crocus makes no statement bound in straggly grass
Snowdrops bow low tightened and
Resolute
A fire is lit in the grate and
Curtains drawn.
Birdsong quietens awaiting the call
Illusions of spring awaiting fulfilment
The lion to lay down with the
Lamb.
Sight
a fading picture
the optometrist works
shining the light
Thoughts
considerations
thrown across the table
rainbow fades
Black and White
Cold sleet on old slate
Grey air,grey stone.
The world is black and white.
Storm through the Night
All through the night – relentless and totally dark. Our 375 year house sits on a high ridge and it does feel like we are sometimes under siege .
A gusting wind
Exhales in bursts
The rain
Like knives spears the dark
Ricochets off ancient walls.
To the keeper of the keys.
The pulsating night
Drinks in thirst
The slates
Vibrate in constant thrum
Relentless cries those riven squalls
This castle under siege.
The Kingdom of the Grey
Beneath the woodland floor
You look for more
Stare at the grey:
A moon from outer space;
Another web ;another world
Skeins unfurled
Drawn of fine strands
And white fungal lace;
I could trance the soil away
See The kingdom of the grey
Appear now and then
Gossamer threads that trace.
Inspired after reading a chapter of Underland by Robert Macfarlane this morning .
Trace fossils fill the void
Trace fossils carried with us Marks of those we loved, and those we did not ever know; Faded handwriting on an envelope A string of pearls broken though Worn crests on silver cutlery Names and places Census returns Trace is what we carry- what we yearn Like the map on our skin Filling the void left behind .
Ruth Partridge 