On winter nights I often see the moon, caught in the branches of a tree. I wonder if she’s trapped there, or embraced? I should know. She always rises, bright and free. I should remember that it takes a planet to entangle her.
All I have is memories of memories – like feathers, plucked and swirling – the fires they lit at the end, in places that had been kept dark for years. Dancing. My father handing over hollowed bread, a telegram that broke a woman.
Bodies in the water.
The horses, being led away, through the farm gate. Lost.
A city full of women. Children without fathers, running wild.
A man walking. Feathers
that we grasp and grab. We press them into wax, make wings of them
knowing that Icarus will fall.
Bjorn is hosting at dVerse, and asks us to write about war. I found this a difficult prompt. As I say, I only have memories of memories about war – my parents’ experience of WWII as small children, stories I’ve heard from that generation and the generation above.
I have always liked those old lecturns made in the shape of eagles. I like the idea that words will fly into the distance, that they will soar above us, that they have their own power. Give words wings, let them fly.
rising on sunlight
seeing the earth spread below
spotting a mouse dart
Why did you always keep the window closed? What did you fear? I’m asking – look – she’s barefoot in the field, she’s dusty, arms scratched, squinting at the sun. Didn’t you notice she was always gazing out of the window? That she itched and twitched in rhythm with the blackbird, that she sighed.
Was it the sound of sunlight that you hated? Or the scent of bees? or the blue screaming of the sky? Tell me. I’m waiting.
For Laura at dVerse. Thinking about how we end poems. Laura gives us lines to springboard from and use as epigraph
What could a birch tree be, except a girl? A young girl, poised on the edge of a dance with her arms wide, and her hair uncurled, loose round her shoulders; and her friends clustered around her, whispering secrets, rustling and murmuring in their pale dresses, telling each other which bird did this, and what the squirrel said. Nobody guesses how much they see, the supple birch trees, that sway as they wait, feeling the notes sung by the robin, played by the breeze – they can’t resist. Even when they’re old they sway like that, to music half-forgotten, melodies half-heard, echoes of rhythm.
This is for Grace at dVerse, who is asking us to use imagery and/or personification. there is, of course, a nod to Robert Frost here, and I’m still wrestling with the sonnet form. The rhymes got pretty slant-y in this one.
She dabbles her fingers in his dreams – leaves silvery smears on every surface – trails his desires behind her, like a fox-tail robe. She smiles the way a cat yawns, unconscious of teeth, no malice, nothing personal, just that need to toy a little.
A quadrille for De at dVerse. Our word is “dabble”
The first sunrise of 2021 was a smear of raspberry pink over a monochrome world that crunched under foot. We discovered a new walk, and that we have made some new friends over the last year. At the top of the hill we looked back over a landscape that we know well, made new and different by a change in perspective. I think that perspective will be the only thing that changes over the next few weeks. Our plans are blown around like so many brown leaves. We’re entering a new lockdown. It’s like we’re not moving, we’re just bobbing up and down, waiting to set sail.