Shrouded in the half-light
of a crow-dusk sky and ruby streetlamp blur
I observe hidden lovers
tango in mid-air
wings outstretched ready to hold the earth
in their lust-love
time is stolen by the passion of the near-night
and silent melody of the harp-moon
until the crackle of burnt leaf-beacons
warns of a stoat’s prying eyes
endangered by discovery
the paramours bow into the shadows
leaving only the gentlest echo of their romance
to the dark.
Maple leaves are falling like flames
touch-paper thin and crisp dry
perfect kindling for burning
the last vestige of summer.
Brambles bruised as a boxer's eye
are being wrangled by magpies and jays
blue tail-feathers glisten
with every blood-spattered bite.
Furnace-chested robins stare menacingly
their smouldering coal claws
seem melted to the gatepost
soul-bound guardians
- a comforting presence.
The arrival of a delivery van
steals my view
- ambushes my catatonia.
pears are dangling
silvery earthen-green earrings
inviting to be removed from leafed ears
some have rotted in the intensity of the sun
sheen dulled to clay rust
damson plums nestle into branches
like amethyst hiding in rock
only smoothed
precious stone fruit hiding
emerald green flesh
braeburns have fallen
comfortable in the flame-kissed leaf beds
and honey golden late summer grasses
orbs of sweet promise
the kids are dressed as pirates
wandering with small baskets
ripe with wonder
they gather their treasures
before a couple of cavaliers
spoil their bounty.
devour the sand
plunder every grain
horde them in your golden keep
conquer this land fleetingly
– rise triumphant
spread your scales of quicksilver
under the feathered winter sun
retreating only
– at the moon’s blunt counsel.
This poem was created in response to the Imagist Poet Hilda Doolittle’s poem Oread as part of TopTweetTuesday on X/Twitter.
Drops of caramel
soften the lemon sorbet clouds
and a flesh-ripe mango leans lazily
across the vista
Summer will be gone tomorrow
I hope the sun melts slower tonight
binds itself to the horizon
Autumn can wait
just a while longer.
At the mark of the golden hour
rays of low winter sunlight
descend from the sky
- like spectres
never quite touching solid ground
but always reaching
always reaching
finding frozen breath
thawing life.
And the clouds crumbled to feathers
silent and graceful as gliding swans.
This short poem was in response to a TopTweetTuesday prompt.
The crescent moon
glinted like a scythe -
against the bruise-blue night sky
a celestial grim reaper
a witness to the dark things
grief ambushed me
like an owl in hunt
silently, savagely,
tearing my contentment
to shreds.
Like a squall of rabid jackals
clutching at downed prey
foaming furious waves crushed
into the cowing ebony rockface
so sinister and brutal the crush
that the nearby valleys of marram grass
bristled with every slamming smash
but the sky was glacial blue
and we felt tranquil
hands held gently as we walked
- the silence of sand underfoot.
The wreath shines
in winter light
scarlet holly glowing
slices of scented citrus
glistening like stained glass
even long-dried pinecones
have a revived golden aura
emerald fir and spruce branches
hold everything together
this natural bracelet
a truly precious
and priceless gift.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem. I hope you’re doing amazing this week and have some merriment planned over the festive period. Only 2 poems left of the calendar. Thanks for the ongoing support, it’s very appreciated.
Take It Easy
Paul
Paul Writes Poems 