A curse

Who would want to live in a world which is just not quite fatal?”
~ Rachel Carson ~”The Silent Spring”

In the footprint of the old barn
five new houses almost built
swallows due home from Africa
shall find no eaves

All along the forest tracks
creatures sound alarms
flee from our footsteps in a flash
of wing and fur and hoof

Then the roads come through
bulldozers never sleep
until a clearway sweeps clean
the forest floor

Nest, burrow, lair, flower
fungi, sapling, scooped
and scarified to dust

And we do not mind that deadly silence
above all engine noise

May all the man-eaters mount attacks
send in the snakes spitting venom
spiders with their fatal bites
multiply microbes in every element
every corner of the continents

Before we lay waste the earth

With this “Forest Traffic!”photo from Pulkit Kudiwal, Carrie has stirred our Sunday Muse

Poetry in Motion

I do not ask for youth, nor for delay
in the rising of time’s irreversible river
that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall
in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,
all that I have and all I am always losing
as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.
I do not dream that you, young again,
Might come to me darkly in love’s green darkness
Where the dust of the bracken spices the air
Moss, crushed, gives out an astringent sweetness
and water holds our reflections
motionless, as if for ever.
....remembering that water,
however luminous and grand, falls fast
and only once to the dark pool below.

These photos were in need of a poem and today I found it in Lauris Edmond’s “waterfall”. Just recently my enthusiasm for photography has reached a stagnant pool but with a 2 week break away I’m hoping to find the source again.

Sunday Sayings: A pick from the poets, writers or scriptures

A Gardener’s Sigh

So small, so symbolic
So much resides inside
The sown seed
Concealed in its neonatal
underworld.
A thin haze of earth
Obscures my gaze to roots
Divining water. The casing
Swells, cracks, is castaway.

Shoots appear.
Each a gardener’s sigh
Bent upon the sky.


Just 44 small words for Merril’s quadrille prompt: Seed