Three girls in a churchyard

Three girls with robin egg blue

school skirts past the knee 

skip,

linked,

arm entwined in arm

under sudden flurries

of coloured leaves

sailing, swirling,

pirouetting

in orange and gold

glory.

The girls accidentally serenade

the weathered man

on the bench

with their high tones

and laughing songs

about roses and cradles

and cats.

He clutches a bottle,

his eyes open sky.

Arm in arm

the girls step

more slowly now,

the silence of stones

muffling their voices

as the ghostly wind

lifts their skirts

and tangles their hair.

Through the churchyard

they go,

past chalk grey 

headstones

at all angles 

each holding

the story of a life, a full life,

of a mother, sister, hero,

writer, dreamer, singer,

friend.

At the edge of the road,

a howl of wind

evokes shrieks,

cold bites

at the sweet point

of their necks.

In swirls of robin blue

they hug and break

and wave to each other

dashing down the street,

towards home.

Later that night,

they are tucked up warm.

Through the window cracks

the wind blows in

sounds from the churchyard,

the rattling of leaves,

the rustling of bones,

whispers in the dark

and the drunk man’s

rasping song,

his heart in every note.

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Spider Teach Me

I feel there is no wrong way to read this poem. But here is one way, in linear form:

Spider, teach me

for I do not understand

your weavings.

 

Your symmetry of silk

glistening in grace,

loved by diamond drops of dew

reflecting rainbows in the first sun.

 

How?

 

I walk this way

and that,

and know things

and unknow them.

 

Will you teach me to

navigate the tightropes

with such delicate balance,

to weave my web

into a whole,

 

a pattern

the dew kisses

and the sun dances upon?

 

And spider,

once you teach me

to weave

such a wonder,

will you show me how

 

to let the strands

break and sail

so the earth can know them

once again?

The Green Web

It is the green leaves
swaying in my heart
when I look upon the Ash
that tell me my name –
 
Heartwood
 
When I meet you
it is with a tree love,
 
not with a fist
of money
or might.
 
The true strength
of the world
lies here,
 
in heart to heart,
in leaf to leaf,
in leaf to heart.
 
Within this 
green web
of thrumming 
connection,
we are held
and forever
home.
I hope you like this one. It’s a thought/feeling I’ve been having for awhile, and wanting to express it. – Giulietta 

 

Good News Garden

There is only
good news now.

The leaf touched by
dawn’s grace.

The wildflowers
bright again,

bees breaking
into buzz

after the sleepy
silence of night.

Now the colours are
yellow, gold, green,
pink, purple and blue,

a meadow of colours
dreamt and undreamt.

Look close at the
curve of bee
on a papery petal.

Let the perfume
of wild rose
paint you in pink.

Step aside
from night’s
tangle-eyed
shadows
of black
and grey.

Enter the meadow
of clear colour
in sunlight.

There is only
good news here.

Earth Speaker

Earth Speaker,
tell us the way –

how to live as
a dandelion,
yellow joy,
full of vitamins,
unafraid to be picked,

how to live as
a tree
shading those
who are burning,

home to birds,
squirrels, insects,
smaller things.

Tell us how
to become
a home

even in
our final fall

to let go
of the sky
and lie back
down to earth
with grace

as the living trees
witness our change
and mushrooms
and lichens
take us.

Earth Speaker,
tell us,
for we have
forgotten
we are part
of it all.

Imperfect Green

I stretch
outside
feet soft
on grass
roots grow
deeper.

My fingers,
leaves in
blue sky.

I am imperfect

my thoughts
don’t make sense
my heart
rebels sometimes

I don’t know
how to
love
perfectly
breathe
perfectly.

All the blades
of green life
beneath my feet
are different –

in none is there
symmetry.

I am green,
growing
and my roots
are deep
in this nourishing
earth.

I love
I love
I love

Earth Body

Perhaps she
reclaims us now.

We, errant trees
who have walked
so far.

She says,
take the barriers
down between
you
and
I

and let my
fertile soil
hold your pale,
soft feet.

You are from
this land
and to
this land,
to every leaf
and mushroom,
you will return.

If we stop
moving for a
moment and feel
the air in
our breath

we will know
it is not
our air nor
our breath.

She gathers
us back
to her now

to stand on
her soil and
grow roots
from our feet
and stretch our arms
to the sky
and once again hear
the true rhythm
we are.

Hills of Pine and Oak

Hills of pine and oak
stretch before you,
dun, golden and green,
the colors of a hillside
in autumn.

A lake is visible
below you,
in the valley.
reflections of clouds
move in its stillness.

There are houses
but not many,
most things here are
trees, water,
blue sky and birdsong.

Sit here
and let the cool,
fresh, pine-scented
air fill your lungs

as the sky
fills your eyes
and the land
fills your heart

and your blood
and the tree sap
and the streams
running through it all

pulse
with the same
bright, simple
joy
of living.

This poem was inspired by the ever-reflective Loch Voil in Scotland.

The Shape of Love

I do not know
the shape of love
though my life
has fit its form.

Not in a human shape
reflecting two faces –
a newborn.

Nor in a ring,
a golden, endless
circle infinite
in its holding.

In the first
yellow daffodils
after the
bones of winter
break

just as the sun hits

the moment of bloom
and the next moment
when their graceful
dancers’ heads
bow and drop

that describes
the shape of it

how we bloom and fall
in an endless, golden
circle.