The project may run again in July (it did last year) and I'll join in again. The discipline of stopping and looking around my world, the physical, intellectual and emotional ones, for a few moments and noticing what's there, what's really there, not what I think is there, is always a good one.
Today's writing prompt comes from one of my River posts which is why it doesn't have a title... yet.
Rain overnight and this morning not a crackle of frost on the trees
or along the kerb around the yard
only a mist of grey above
and between the bare branches.
I miss the hills, the green roll
of them swallowed by cloud.
The day is too soft for clear thought.
Write about the weather, about yourself immersed in weather, or a rant against a particular kind of weather. Or a poem in praise of weather. About rain, or snow, or unexpected weather, or reliable weather. About the emotions the weather stimulates in us. About the memories it ignites.
Write well.
L
x
8 comments:
Beyond the stile life goes on,
in misted street and soaken lane,
where earth and sky in embrace meet
and kiss upon this meeting.
But vantage offers no advantage
from hill in shroud of dewy haze
and the voicey breeze mutters loud
ears cursed with such shrouding.
On this hill in sodden garb,
alone I sit on windswept peak,
feet firmly placed on limestone, grit,
misted future also sitting.
Rain.
Tendrils of low cloud drift slowly,
fingers running across the hills
while mist rises to meet it,
the stretching, arched back
reaching for a lovers touch.
In the trees
water runs through the leaves
scattering green light,
softening the view
and as I stand in the rain
the water runs over me,
and the cloud descends
to hide the truth.
hidden by the fog
I walked blindly
chasing the road as if in a blind alley
sounds of chilly wind chased me
silence of my chilled heart propelled me
I stumbled in the cobbled path
fell down on my knees,
compelled to kiss the frosted earth
To read rest of the poem, click on my name.
BLACK HEATH
Oppressive vapour hovers
over Blackheath, sucking light
from London’s Architecture;
not a single ebony
but cumulus multitudes of soot;
town houses, palladium manors,
old flats, modern apartments
are all bleak, sullen,
as listless as the long-term dead.
A raven plague has devoured
Britannia’s green grass,
her faded ivory from window frames,
white- washed walls,
the very essence of suburbia’s
garden fauna, shrubbery.
Even the throaty charcoal air feels
murky, sombre –
only All Saints Church
on the dark heaths far edge
over seeing the Old Town
is bathed in rays of gold,
high on the spire
the cross of Christ pierces the skies
like a bird on the wing of a burning cloud,
saturating its leaden roof tiles
in an Angelic glow…
perhaps God
has escaped Hell, burst free,
crying look! Look here
English peasants, I am here!
I have arisen
to my kingdom of heaven
far beyond your melancholy smog.
Waiting
Rain, rain, it's raining
in the South Sound,
and the gentle rapping
on my temples
bathes my pain,
as I ready myself
for the next sun break.
Touch
Gray on gray,
their heavy black bellies
touching tree tops,
spiced with lightning,
garnished with thunder,
as my day proceeds.
The icy hand of Winter
points its blasts
in this direction.
Holding fingered water
in suspended animation,
crystal fluid
glazed and shining,
glinting,
in the disguise of sunlight.
There is no escape
from the cold clutching
as we slowly
become rigid in its chill.
Inside, by the fire,
the heart beats reveille,
a call to arms
for inner warmth,
and the waking throb
of hot ache.
GHOST WEATHER
Ghost weather. Freezing fog
and a frost so thick it crusts
the long hedgerow into an
albino coral reef. Glorious,
this power without ambition
or desire. Godless, unmitigating –
how, in spite of all we are,
it chills us, heart and bone.
Well I'm English so talking about the weather is one of my favourite things to do, so writing poetry about it makes sense too!
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