For the dVerse Tuesday poetics prompt “Persephone“:
The birds know she is coming.
They are staking out their territory,
marking the boundaries with song.
The sheep know is she coming.
The tender white lambs crowd
under their mothers’ dull grey fleeces.
The seeds know she is coming.
They are pushing green shoots
through the cold, damp earth.
The kangaroos know she is coming.
Their pouches bulge and stir
with impatiently folded joeys.
The trees know she is coming.
The wattles are dressed in
their best golden gowns,
ready to greet her.
Though the wind is so cold it bites,
it carries with it her sweet kiss.
Tasting of pomegranate seeds.
For the dVerse Monday Haibun prompt, “August“:
August is a time of uncertainty, of transition – of winter greys and browns being suddenly speckled with green and yellow as the daffodils in my garden and the wattles in the bush bloom.
One day I wake to find the birdbath frozen over, and huddle in my coat, woolly beanie pulled low as I rush to do my outdoor chores. The next day the sun warms my back so much I shed layers down to a t-shirt – fooling me into forgetting my woolly beanie the next day so my ears freeze.
One day the air carries the sweet dusty scent of the wattles, the next it is so icy all I can smell is the sharp metallic scent of cold, that reddens the nose and makes it run. And then, suddenly, a hint of spring drifts through again.
A tendril of warmth
curls through the air, carrying
scent of earth and growth.
The first of my tete a tete daffodils has just opened! Spring must be very close indeed, even though there was a brief flurry of snow in Canberra on the weekend. So here is a celebratory ha’ sonnet.
A tete a tete
“Well met! Well met!”
their greeting fills
me with delight,
and hope, despite
so grey a day.
It’s hard to avoid seeing evidence of climate change, when the spring bulbs are starting to flower around the winter solstice. The jonquils started a few weeks ago, in very early winter, and the first iris opened just a few days ago.
We’re not yet into the coldest part of winter, yet the spring is already pushing its way in. I am trying to enjoy it, without fearing too much the summer that will come after.
In winter’s stronghold
spring’s advance party unfurls
its golden standard.
Today I am planting tulips.
I am planting five red tulips in a white pot. Continue reading
For the dVerse Haibun Monday prompt: Cherry Blossoms.
Every day I drive past a field on the edge of the village. A view of it opens suddenly between rows of tall trees, and I have to look quickly to catch a glimpse of it as I turn onto the bridge into the village. Today this field is darkened by the autumn rains to mud-brown, and even the sheep, knee-deep in mud, are mucky grey-brown.
But in my mind, it is emerald green with fresh spring growth, dotted with white sheep. It is sweet summer deep-gold with ripe grain and pale-gold with dry straw. It is drought-dry hard summer ochre, with willy-willies swirling columns of dust among the thirsty sheep. It is autumn grey. It is glittering white with winter frost. In a single glimpse it is all of these, all at once, each a vivid transparency overlaid on today’s precious glimpse.
I blink, and the field is behind me and I am slowing to enter the village, where the houses and a line of decorative street-trees begins, the last yellowed leaves falling from their bare branches…
I see blossoms foam,
leaf buds forming, un-furling,
on bare black branches.
Tucked up so tight
in softest down,
a darling sight!
So green and round!
Too sweet they look
for me to cook.
I’ll eat them raw.
Filed under gardening, poem
Friday afternoon and the highway beckons,
but despite my impatience to be on my way
I am lured off the road –
by a cardboard sign on a dusty ute,
its block lettering as irresistible as any siren song –
CHERRIES Continue reading
Filed under musings, poem
“to every thing there is a season…”
The spring rains have come,
bringing the turtles out.
And now their shattered shells
lie strewn along the road,
their flesh exposed
to the bloody-beaked crows. Continue reading
Filed under musings, poem
Paterson cursed the paddocks purple,
“how pretty!” the city folk cry.
But farmers weep at fields of flowers
where the horses will sicken and die.