The bulge of summer

The bulge of summer gone

last night

in a flurry

the leaves gathered

herded

like a flock of dip stained sheep into corners of untidy gardens

under hedges of blackthorn spikes.

Now a place for beetles

to breathe slow

to play dead.

Winter crocuses naked

bending with no backbone

a blue botanical mistake.

Even the stars shiver

blink unsure

casting a weak shine on an empty field where slaughtered lambs once leapt

twisting in the air.

Only the young mothers remember that.

~

peace

morning walk

those chattering sparrows

empty my head

~

Flight

nearly weightless it leaps

taking my broad bean seeds

that damn squirrel

~

i am

drifting ashore

the sound of ocean surging through my body

a seashell

~

Watching the pigeons

 Monday -
 on the platform again
 the day he goes to London
 breathing shallow
  
 waving i turn away
 the train gathers speed
 stiff happiness sliding off my skin
 i wait to get lost in the darkness
  
 looking skywards for strength
 I make myself a bell tower
 in this sharp bright light
 he shall be the bell.
  
  
 Just a bunch -
 a band of pigeons in the station tree
 preening
 nearly flirting 
 waiting
 for another to make the first move
  
 my husband calls them rat birds
 for taking the niger seeds i leave for the songbirds
 i suppose it isn’t really stealing.
  
  
 From behind the sun 
 a rush of air
 the hawk sharp
 a weapon grown fleet with need
  
 a jet strike deep into the branches
 i never heard pigeons shriek like this
 feathers fly and the hawk twists away
   inverts 
stalls 
a snap roll

 and is gone.
  
  
 The pigeons ruffle
 quick to forget
 settling back 
 quick to remember nothing has changed
  
 except the little hawk is still hungry
 and my breath has grown slow 
 and made more space around me
 ~
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   

february

the mist stayed all day

and so has my melancholic mood

invisible sunset

~

in the wood

that liminal edge

where my skin thins and i lose my edges

no longer i

~

acceptance

surrendering to the cloud

hands deeper in pockets

turning in on myself

…

photo courtesy mads thomson

short short day

a hungry cow calls…

out of the fog the hamlet appears

then back it sinks

~

I’d forgotten how these days before winter solstice – which I usually find dampen my spirit- are utterly beautiful…

shortening day

an upward glance

bare branches darkening the silence

releasing the moon

~