Sunday morning ha’ sonnets

Sunday morning
peace is shattered,
without warning
ears are battered
patter of feet?
Nothing so sweet…
Damn kids are up.

Why is it so hard to get them out of bed on school days, but on Sunday they’re  yelling at each other to be quiet before 0700?? 

And one for my darling girl:

 

In the woodshed
under the straw
she’s made her bed –
beware don’t draw
too close to her.
Don’t make her stir –
let sleeping pigs…

 

We have one slow-combustion wood stove only to heat the house – which is usually fine, except that the pig has moved into the woodshed where she’s pulled apart a couple of bales of straw to make a cosy nest. And she growls menacingly at anyone that tries to get in to get wood. 

bodysurfing/beached

Waiting,
watching,
until the perfect swell,
high and glassy,
rolls in.

morning haiku I

The windchime clatters,
thunder growls around the house –
winter come prowling.

The morning commute:
(hooray for isolation!)
bring laptop to bed.

Thanks Vixen of Verse, for the inspiration!   

elementals I: cockatoo

With a shriek
the sky splinters,
a dawn-white shard falls,
swoops,
sulphur crest rising
like a glimpse of sun.

requiem for a brittlegum

Sweat drips down my face,
my back,
between my breasts.
Sawdust collects in my boots,
soft and grainy
between my toes.

pobblebonk

I was digging in my garden on Sunday to plant some more bulbs (mostly oriental lilies) and turned up this:

leadership training

“This organisation wants authentic commitment”

fledgling

At my feet,
an eviscerated hen,
sans head,
intestines spilling out.

Circling above,
breaking the silence,
a fledgling wedgetail
calls to be fed.

This is why my hens are in protective custody. There is a breeding pair of wedgetail eagles nesting just over the ridge…    

Thanks to FV for the trigger to write this – turquoise eternity.    

Queanbeyan junior brass

After months of empty silence,
two dozen children, like ravenous birds,
fly into St Stephen’s kitchen

sunlight in a jar

With a pop
a ghost is released
into the chill winter morning –
endless dry heat,
scent of pine and dust,
scratched arms and
purple stained hands –
a summer day,
carried on blackberry scent.

Jam is magic, like Dumbledore’s pensieve – every jar holds the day it was made, and the day the fruit was picked. Homemade jam isn’t just a way of preserving a harvest or getting something with a good strong flavour – it’s a way of storing memories and keeping a bit of summer safely stored away for when you need it, spread on toast, on a dark winter morning.