0500 December 30th, tachycardia

The rooster sounds reveille, but I am already awake
and swimming upwards from a dream of drowning
into bathwater-warm air, saturated with the night’s breaths.
At least in my dream the water was cool.

Sinking back, submerging again into sleep
the flickering in my chest, in my scalp, pulls me up.
Morning meds, a glance at the sky, and back to bed.
Nightmares are a side effect, supposedly,
but I long to sink back into dreams.

The rooster has woken the magpies, their songs flow –
silver streams, winding and twining through
a dawn of grey freshwater pearl,
leading me back to cool waters.

0900 29th December

The cool change has swept away
all my excuses for indolence.
Today is a day for doing.
Yet there is little to be done –
in these in-between days
between Christmas and New Year,
the only have-tos are done by 9.
The kookaburras have long finished their morning rounds
the rooster is taking a break, and,
apart from some gossiping wattlebirds,
there is unaccustomed quiet.
Even the children are muted –
couch-bound hungry caterpillars
steadfastly working their way through
box after box of cereal.
After a year of wishing for
some peace,
some respite from all the have-tos
some time to drink a coffee before it goes cold…
and, halfway through my still-warm second cup,
I am at a loss for what to do with myself.

2000, 27th December (common browns and dragon flies)

The day is ending, let’s go outside,
and watch the sky slip into night
come, hold my hand, I’ll be your guide
as we wander through the fading light.
Around the clearing, the brittle-gums
stand tall in sunset-tinted columns
and honey the air as darkness comes
with massed bouquets of tiny blossom.
And on this stage among the trees
the couples form then float apart
pirouetting in the evening breeze
as from the gullies the night-rise starts.
A hundred maidens flutter by
pursued by a hundred eager swains
against the pale blue evening sky
and take with them the day’s remains.
Their peasant cloaks now drawn in tight
fastened, hiding brighter hues
the dancers leave us for the night
and the stage is put to other use.
So this dance ends, the next begins:
comes darting above the canopy
hunger born on cellophane wings –
hover and strike – how uncannily
their preys’ moves they anticipate.
Large eyes tracking tiny forms
and in a minute they decimate
the terrified and swirling swarms.
But darkness, risen like a tide,
has washed away the last pink light
and all the dancers depart to hide
wherever it is they spend the night.
And we also turn and leave this sight,
retrace our steps and go back inside.

 

My holiday writing project is to complete at least 16 ‘hours’ poems. I wrote a few a couple of years ago, as part of a back and forth with another writer of poems with times as the titles. I always meant to complete a full day but never have, although there are a few from around then on this blog. So this is my re-boot of that project. By the end of the holidays I want to have an April witch sort of poem for each hour from waking to going to sleep. 

I would really love it if anyone else wants to join in and we can link to each other’s ‘hours’ poems. No particular form, and I’m going to try to use several different forms, generally shorter than this.

   

0800 27th Dec, vicarious snoozing

0800
Ginger-mutt is caught out, but he sees it is just me and knows there will be no roar of “get off the couch!”. The rules are different before anyone else is up.

0700 Christmas eve, 2022

0700
and sleep,
not knowing the holidays are here,
left me an hour ago.

today I have the time

The tree is dressed
with candles ready to be lit,
the presents are wrapped and piled beneath.
The shopping is done and the larder is packed,
the meals are planned.

So, what is left to do?

I had planned,
when work is put away for the year,
when Christmas is wrapped and ready to be opened,
when the old year is over but the new not yet started
then, in the in-between discretionary days,
then, when there is nothing still waiting to be done,
then, when I have the time,
then, I will put aside some time to cry
to wash away this year,
and be ready,
bright eyed but smiling,
to face the next one.

Today I have the time.

 

In remembrance of those four that didn’t make it to this Christmas, and who should have had a lifetime of them ahead of them.  

choosing candles

Written for the dVerse prompt “St Lucy – bringing light into darkness“, and also as a follow up to my last poem, about putting the candles on the tree.

There is a science to choosing one’s candle.

decorating the tree

For the dVerse quadrille Monday prompt “I like candy“, a 44 word poem including the word candy:

There is an art to positioning the candles –

bluebells and bell-grass, haibun

December, and the first month of summer is upon us. Walking up the hill is an effort now in the heat. But I stay on the road in the sun, where any snakes are easier to see, rather than walk in the long dry grass or the leaflitter under the trees.

If we make it through December

For the dVerse prompt “come sing with me“. The challenge was to include at least 2 song titles from the winter themed list provided, which I’ve copied below. 

If we make it through December
(and after all, why wouldn’t we?