The sky is coconut ice. A robin bursts with song, Sharp and vortexed. How does he not freeze? Not tumble through the stiff bareness of the elder, Fragile feathers catching at twiggy spurs – A small ball of puffed air and folly, While I mince on the shined sandstone Sprinkling a safe salty path.
Work complete as day turns night, Deities play with giant dice, Rumble rock cubes in the sky, Clash their jugs of mythic wine, Sparking jolts of metalled white, Whilst mothers bolt the windows tight, Worried bairns would wake affright As the thunderous clouds ignite.
Linking this to d’Verse Poets where Lisa was serving at the bar last night, inviting us to write a Quadrille using the word ‘work’ . (We had a hum-dinger of a thunder storm last night. Awesome lightning illuminated the garden as the thunder clashed above the house. )
She sings her tale as lyrically as any opera. From the mountains, where breath is ice and air is thin, she skips an elaborate path, a trilling coloratura over rocks as worn as time. Distracted on her way by willowed inlets and the bel canto of romantic wallows where love is lost and found and lost again. Until the grand finale – that final leap into clouded oblivion – as her aria lifts higher than a falcon before she succumbs, her fate written, falling to a clash of cymbals and the crash of rapturous applause.
Above, an infinity of blue – deep and still and featureless. Until, a distant tchacking heralds a tide of jackdaws, spiralling in a whirlpool of flight, a helix of black morse code, dots and dashes revealing the invisible, like dust brushed onto fingerprints, nature’s imagers.
Linking this to The Sunday Muse Blogspot, where Carrie is focussing on all things feathered this week. http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/. After seeing the prompt, I sat outside in the shade with my coffee and saw a swathe of hundreds of jackdaws overhead. They caught a thermal and twirled higher and higher. It was wonderful to watch.
It has a neglected air, like an untidy haircut. The occasional wispy strand sticking up, amongst the straw-like crop. Death seems imminent. The merest touch brings crumbs and dust. And yet, pale bumps appear – pilar cysts, erupting through the hard, baked skin – subterranean colonies building future empires. Journeys, too, buzz overhead, sucking, nudging, searching, Silent wings, as light as thought, flutter colour into the air as if to say, look, hearts are still beating.
The haze holds close the shushing creep onto the shore. Billowed colours dip and soar. Baffled crows on sentry duty, caw. Placid, ruminating blocks of shadow gather on green tufted waves, as we gaze on chalk-white cheeks, scored as if by some giant’s claws.
Linking this to d’Verse Poets quadrille which this week has been set by WhimsyGizmo aka De Jackson (https://dversepoets.com/2022/04/18/quadrille-150-chalk-it-up-to-poetry/) with the invitation to write a poem of exactly 44 words which include the word ‘chalk’. My offering is a re-working of a previous poem I have written about the seaside town of Seaford.