Everything changes: the Good Queen becomes the Wicked Witch. The grey wolf gobbles up the moon, the moon destroys the wolf. Take one step sideways and the monster is a frightened child. We, who are dazzled by the sun, are scared of shadows. We forgive ourselves, condemn ourselves, spiralling round the truth, walking the labyrinth, flickering between light and dark. Nothing is distinct – stars sparkle in the night, and clouds cast shadows on the corn field.
Alone in her saffron coloured kitchen she mixes up sugary dreams for us all: ginger-bread horses with lemony manes, cinnamon soldiers with peppermint canes. and the sweet sticky scents roll out, down the hall, and we smile at the smell of her witching.
A spicy poem for dVerse tonight, where Merril is hosting. I’m having fun with this sestain form at the moment.
This is something like redemption – this bright shattering and shimmering. Each bird is something like an angel, and together they are light carved into feather, light made into storm, or wind-caught wave. Light stirred, made into something solid. Living light.
An ekphrastic poem inspired by this wonderful image by Lee Madgwick. I’m hosting at dVerse tonight, and there are more images and links to poems to inspire you there.
By the time the moon rose, its clear light freezing, like a veil of ice, in that moment, our passion was the only warm thing there. It burned. At our first touch, the world itself flared, turned its gaze on us – seeking out that fierce, hot power blossoming between us, wild and brave and bright.
For Laura at dVerse, who invites us to take a line from a “kissing” poem, place it vertically, and make a poem from it. She also invited us to use a form – I’ve gone with a sestain, with a rhyme scheme ABCCBA, just because I like it. I chose the line “by freezing passion at its blossoming” from Neil Carpathios’ poem “The Kiss”. If this doesn’t make sense, check out Laura’s explanation over at dVerse.
Lazy August lingers by the water – she loves the lapping of those little waves. She’s ankle-deep now, watching the setting sun behind the pier. Pink shouldered, red nosed August hands over ninety-nines and fresh fried donuts, slips you a fiver when your mum’s not looking, smells of vanilla, cigarettes and cider.
Patient August, sitting the car, winding the windows down, she’s sweating, endlessly queuing, opening crisps, pouring out coffee from a tartan flask. She’s cracking jokes, leading a sing-song, hot thighs sticking to the plastic seat. Languid August lets you run amok. She doesn’t care your shoes are wet, your T-shirt ruined – just grab some plasters and a wedge of cake and head on out again –
Generous August, gathering blackberries in a spare plastic bag, eating them absent-mindedly, fingers stained purple – lauging August, kiss-me-quick and squeeze-me-slow, hiring a deck-chair, cutting sandwiches – cheese or ham? – throwing in crisps and pop –
and under that creased skirt, the scratch of stubbled fields, a young fox creeping through the hedge, a hare running and leaping wild beneath a golden moon.
We came here when the sky was bright and watched the sun sink into fire and flames and hesitated. The tide went out, time slowed, until the moon rose. Look, we said, a road rippling and silvering the waves. and that one star, and the half-light.
A sestain for Merril’s ekphrastic prompt at dVerse. I’m writing to Peder Severin Krøyer, Summer Evening at Skagen. The Artist’s Wife and Dog by the Shore