Great arc of sky,
Steady,
Allowing suns
passage across,
Over
And
Sideways.
Now afternoon’s turn
Has come to be,
the long bridge over short night.
Tag: summer
How the Rain Might Visit
These are songs we dare speak
Only to ourselves
While we wait
Patiently
Through the thick stagnation
We encounter somewhere
Between summer and fall
When the wind falls away,
And the sun is all that is left.
.
This time of smoke
And old valleys
Sitting low, in their once easy chairs
Of coastal ranges gone tight
And creaking
Under their own thirsting landscapes.
.
You can just about hear the memories:
Water-worn tales amidst the dust and rounded gravels,
Once verdant glee,
All gone brittle,
In this time of waiting.
Summer River
I’m thinking of compiling a bunch of stanzas over the course of the summer, each being a separate evening on the river, and see where it goes. Of course, that begs the question when does summer begin and end! So here’s an introduction, maybe, followed by a recent evening. We’ll see how this pans out – guess I better spend some time on the water in the evening!
.
The smell of river hangs in the trees.
Dangling on the buzzing songs,
Of birds and bugs.
Heaps of them
Appeared just yesterday!
.
The days don’t seem long,
But they stretch beyond August now,
What they will soon call the dog days.
.
Now, we have frog days,
That linger into this night,
An evening of cricket thickets,
Water noises and screeching night birds.
.
A pulsing choir to send us on our way.
.
Last night, a sudden and certain pause:Sprays of lightning danced overhead, crackling off in every direction.
And the last bit of setting sun,
Spilled golden light underneath everything,
Casting a rainbow over the far bank. May31. And now the rain, showery waves Wavering by day, singing lullabies by night This is the rain you were warned about Where picnics run and hide And chefs delight in warm dishes from the hearth. Sustaining, despite our cries for ice cream and secret swimming holes at the ends of dirt roads. July 11. Afternoon hangs on here, Like a cruel gift of time For people who never give up. August 4. Just for a moment, Afternoon sneaks in a rattling breeze Shaking little poems from the leaves Giggling like children passing secrets In a playground, just before the bell rings. October 26. Maybe summer exhales in the evening now, More likely an afternoon, When sun and light and water play For just a while, before it all quiets down But maybe, just maybe, Summer might tell one last quiet bedtime story.
Shaken Rain 