I’m looking at rooks again.

Rooks rooting in the wet soil,
one rook, and another, and another,
all across the field, moving,
not military, no, more like
a mob of mates, meandering
not marching. Rooks roost
in the ash trees at the top
of the long meadow. Rooks rise
whirlwinding into the grey air,
I don’t know why. I never see
what triggers it, I only know
they rise, they circle, they spread out,
not tied together like the starlings,
not in a sharp-carved V
like the wild geese,
but just a rambling, rolling, riffraff rabble
of black wings, feathers splayed.

Bjorn is hosting MTB night at dVerse. He’s looking for assonance, consonance and alliteration. All of those things are hard to avoid, I think, but sometimes it’s good to do something consciously, like concentrating on your forehand.

NaPoWriMo 12 – alliteration

Dancing Dragons

On this misty morning,
all moist and melancholy,
full of murmured mysticism
and make-shift moonshine

I dream of dragons
dancing in the desert,
darting and dropping
through the diamond-dazzling air,
driving the dust-dry desert sands
before them. I dream
of the terrible tearing of
tortured tissues by
talon and tooth, slip over
the sun-sparkled silk-strong,
steel-smooth scales,
their slithering sheen
soaked in shimmering
sunshine.

Here the dismal daylight
drizzles drearily
through the damp dull window,

there the sky is a sapphire scream,
and dragons roost and rustle,
roaming the rust-reddened,
rose-roasted rocks,
drifting and drowsing,
and dreaming

of me.