There’s a Storm in the Air

Storm Eunice is heading our way, so we are bracing ourselves for the windiest day of the year. I know, it’s only February but hey. It’s going to be a big one. I took advantage of finishing early today to go get some images of an abandoned caravan on my way home. Just a few shots but I like them.

I’ve been slowly getting back to writing over the last few months and on Saturday we will be holding the first in person meeting of our poetry group since lockdown began two years ago, it will I hope be successful. I am struggling with my current piece, part the end of something, part cathartic, it comes and goes. Each change brings ideas and fears. Do I want to write this? Can I finish it to make it work for others as well as myself. We’ll see.

I hope no-one has any problems with Eunice. Stay safe out there.

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Autumn Flame Tree. National Poetry Writing Month Day 18.

Tree Aflame.
Tree Aflame.

A look back to Autumn, or forward perhaps as the trees in the garden start to gain their summer coats again. Everything is growing and the long days brighten the weeks work. A fragment to be worked on later I think, but I like the image.


Autumn Flame.

Autumn has turned you into your destroyer,
Fire creeps into your leaves, rising colour
that creates a pool in a circle around you
on the grass. A last look at me shout
before winter takes its final hold.

Whispering Trees. National Poetry Writing Month Day 16.

Trees.
Trees.

Don’t trust the trees, isolated, spiteful, not the huggable life savers we are led to believe. Reaching roots, twisted branches, all grasping for something from the earth or air, from passing people. Then again, maybe I’m wrong, who knows what the trees think.


Whispering Trees.

Trees are just squandering the time they have
by watching everything.

They count years like we count minutes,
each ring a sign of slow movements
as they rail against the wind
or the changing seasons.

Whispering secrets between themselves,
they save leaf fall for when the grass is greenest,
jealous of the camaraderie.

The trees lift the cornerstones of a nearby house
surprised at the brittle nature of our lives.

They only care when the wood burns in the forest,
there is no life and death, only the earth and the sky
and the narrow strip between.

We sit angled between the two, the trees reach
across to touch both.

View from the Window. National Poetry Writing Month Day 9.

Water
Water

How the weather affects us, holds us to a certain mindset. I am watching the birds on lawn through a drizzly day window. They are walking in a line, hunting, pulling at my mind for some reason and memories of other days float in. What links them, the rain, the Jackdaws, black birds with disregard for me overlooking them. And what of the woods, the cutting down of a tree, the seeming silence as it falls and the noise as it strikes the ground. The pause as it settles, yet the space it leaves behind will be populated quickly, not forgotten, rejuvenated, a lesson for us.


View from the Window

Looking from the window on a rainy day,
all the time is brought together

Has the slow track succumbed?

Seven jackdaws peruse the garden,
for them, the rain brings food.

Red lights blur on the road,
rain, wipers, slowing travel.

Hooded heads tilting from side to side, strutting.
The tree has been felled, coming down silently.

Each tree is known prior to selection,
its position and use is planned.

The cold keeps us inside, the wind
is enjoying the emptiness of the street

The woodsman is not indiscriminate, the loss
of a single tree will do no harm in the woods.

The trees and crows still know
the space by its old name.

NaPoWriMo Day 15. Two Old Trees.

Day 15. Half way through, how many of us are still going? Part of the problem is getting out to see other writers who are doing the same thing, while trying to do more writing myself. This is the latest time I’ve posted this month, I’m having a blackout, even the prompts on the web are not helping. It may all come crashing down this week, who else is finding it difficult? Another short poem, more of a note to myself, an image I like from our local park.

Two old trees in the park.

Each summer we walk into the pool of chilled air
beneath them to look through the leaves at the shaded blue
of the sky. Limbs moved by the salted seaside breeze
and stretching so far they hide us from the world,
we could stay a while and wait for the them to grow.