There once was here, a copse of trees, a living, breathing canopy. Its roots held firm from year to year, it fed the birds it housed the bees and sweetened air for us to breathe. A copse of trees, there once was here.
It couldn’t run, could not escape from all the pillage and the rape. Its roots were useless ‘gainst the blunt attacking of a brutal state, and once destruction had begun, could not escape, it couldn’t run.
Maybe there’s hope? Perhaps I’m wrong, the birds may yet rejoice in song. Compassion yet may be awoke, respect for life both weak and strong – the fragile wren, the mighty oak. Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe there’s hope?
Shadow lashes flutter on steam drip tiles, born from hemispheres of gutting light. As soft lavender soaks the air, white salt water clouds my neck to my toes and I sink lower until I am just nail and hair in a fog of thought
This is a very late response to Monday’s quadrille prompt from De Jackson at d’Verse to write a 44 word poem including the word ‘salt’, or some form thereof. I have used the reversed etheree (again – I must like this form!). A bit late to link it to d’Verse, so I’ll just post it here.
Capricious comes, capricious goes, Its elemental, I suppose. One day its high, it hits the roof, The next it signals cold, aloof. I tried to trap it, like a fool, To think it would obey my rule. But off the handle it did fly In a most precocious style. Unpredictable, but wait, It’ll surely remigrate.
I stepped into an aviary of sound, it’s trumpet curling in the mid morn air, calling me to listen, attend the signs of winters slow eventual decline.
Reluctantly my feet marched to the streets, where concrete slabs and tarmac overran. Invading lorries, vans and endless cars then hurled their heavy thrum into my path.
I raised my eyes to greet the passers by, their visors down, they blanked my greeting call. Until one man, a spring within his step, Obliged my hail and smiled – he’d heard it too.
Linking this to d’Verse Poets where Ingrid is hosting: https://dversepoets.com/2022/02/08/poetics-pounding-the-pentameter/ . As suggested, I did indeed walk while composing and must have looked an interesting sight as I occasionally stopped to count the meters out loud. I had a long walk to an appointment and the result pretty much reflects the experience.
The kind people at Creative Writing Ink have chosen my poem ‘The Talisman’ for their October/November Writing Prompt Competition. I am re-posting it below:
Resist the urge to scrape, make good the flaking wreck – that thin veneer of love became unstuck too long ago. Before you sweep the debris left by once warm memories, their rusted shards a heap beneath your lovers’ nest, unclench your hand and feel your puckered heart, contracted as the image burns into your skin. This scar will be your talisman, against more suffering.
Linked to Creative Writing Ink, Writing Prompt One.
The sky is a flawless stretch of achromatic grey. It’s as if it doesn’t want to be noticed. Just go back to bed and don’t bother me. The January winds have got bored and gone in search of other targets. The air is still and the bare elder arches its brittle branches feebly, waiting for another tickle. The only movement is a wood pigeon, which has taken up residence in an old nest within the tree. It looks precarious. Its cinerous body and pink-tinted chest inflated against the cold. Now it scrabbles onto an impossibly thin twig and seemingly floats on nothing, until it nods its head and swoops down, out of sight.
We are all waiting. Preserving life out of sight. Coffined in winter.