Hunters. Moon.

Orion strides across the sky,
chasing a golden moon. His children
are out hunting – owl holds still,
listening: the world a syncope of heartbeats;
fox slinks smoothly through a pewter world
overlaid with multi-coloured stinks
and weasel dreams of nut-plump fieldmice –
all the world is glimmering and rustling,
feasting before the winter starves us all.

We’re writing moon poems at dVerse tonight. I’m hosting. Come and have a look.

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The drowned village

When the wind is high
and the waves leap and roll –
white maned horses
galloping ashore –
they say you can hear the bells
in the steeple ring,
and a child might stir,
or a mother turn in her sleep,
or a grandfather murmur a prayer,
but nobody wakens now.

A quadrille for Kim at dVerse – 44 words, including the word “bell”. Come and join us.