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NaPoWriMo 5 2018
Apr. 9th, 2018 12:46 pmToday's prompt, courtesy of Real Toads in Imaginary Gardens is to do with weather.
Halfway around the world,
morning becomes yesterday's afternoon,
winter to summer,
Wombat State Forest exchanged
for Stonehenge in rain.
The women invoking Earth, Air and Fire:
serious, focussed, full of intent
to make this a peak holy experience.
Aussies all, chilled in the English dawn,
that we can't see anyway
because grey cloud lets down grey rain
onto grey bluestone,
brown ground.
I laugh, a crazy woman
for I am the Water quarter,
and it invokes me
down my neck,
into my boots,
inside my glasses,
a torrent cheerfully washing me clean
of any illusions that I am in charge.
"Water, well, here it is!" I shout,
to the disgust of all
who have come for this moment
inside the stone circle.
They stretch their senses to the limits
to feel whatever the sarsens have for them,
while I bend at the waist
(creating a waterfall off my rain-hat)
and lick the nearest standing stone.
It tastes of moss and the past.
Thankyou to anyone who is reading this poem. I didn't realise how difficult DreamWidth made it to comment if you weren't a member. Sorry. But rest assured that I'm reading your work (inbetween madly proofing my new book of short stories, and preparing for its launch in May), if you're with Real Toads. Thanks again.
Halfway around the world,
morning becomes yesterday's afternoon,
winter to summer,
Wombat State Forest exchanged
for Stonehenge in rain.
The women invoking Earth, Air and Fire:
serious, focussed, full of intent
to make this a peak holy experience.
Aussies all, chilled in the English dawn,
that we can't see anyway
because grey cloud lets down grey rain
onto grey bluestone,
brown ground.
I laugh, a crazy woman
for I am the Water quarter,
and it invokes me
down my neck,
into my boots,
inside my glasses,
a torrent cheerfully washing me clean
of any illusions that I am in charge.
"Water, well, here it is!" I shout,
to the disgust of all
who have come for this moment
inside the stone circle.
They stretch their senses to the limits
to feel whatever the sarsens have for them,
while I bend at the waist
(creating a waterfall off my rain-hat)
and lick the nearest standing stone.
It tastes of moss and the past.
Thankyou to anyone who is reading this poem. I didn't realise how difficult DreamWidth made it to comment if you weren't a member. Sorry. But rest assured that I'm reading your work (inbetween madly proofing my new book of short stories, and preparing for its launch in May), if you're with Real Toads. Thanks again.
