Tag: The Twelve Nights The Wild Hunt

Before Thunder

Raunacht Collection: Day 10

I was wearing a Panama hat sometimes a tropical hat,
khaki pants, or in the realm of reality they were nylon trousers my mom made.

That didn’t deter the explorer though, turning over large stones to watch all the creepy crawlies.
Krabbeltierchen in German scatter as the unexpected sunlight hits their shadowy world.

The clay of the river plain, cracked skin from the summer heat, noon flowers pastel lilac
somewhat limp amidst the dust. Longing for the thunderstorm brewing on the horizon,
as they hang onto life thirsting.

I feel the heat burning my neck; better watch it! Lest I get another sunburn and gran needs to administer the cooling gel.
I watch the wall of anthracite cotton candy threatening the silent summer day.

Only the crickets have the energy to make noise.
The skylarks rest after this morning’s efforts.
This is the moment before lightning bolts rip through the sky, and pelt the gentle flowers into submission;
before the rain sinks into the thirsty ground bringing life once more.

Thick thunderclouds rolling over the dyke fragile wild flowers are in the foreground
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A Grey December Day

Raunacht Collection: Day 07

One of those nearsighted days,
During which I pull the grey light around me.
A blanket of distortion.

There is no discernable horizon,
Just a gradual thickening of dreariness,
Until even the blurred silhouettes of trees disappear into the nothing of this day.

Time is on hold.
Indeed the proud buzzards sit on the ground.
Watching mole-holes, soaked feathers drooping, talons dulled by mud.

I study hula hoop waves dancing across mawkit puddles.
Until the rain grows too heavy,
And recoil destroys the circular serenity.

Dullness has piled into darkness now.
I switch on the light.
And all I see is the reflection of me in the French windows.

This photo is literally described in the poem. Dull day a field with trees barely visible through the fog on the horizon. Only the buzzards are missing here

Grandma’s Duty

Raunacht Collection: Day 02

Your rough-hewn hands
Move over my anxious skin.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
A little twirl,
more emphasise as you move over my hands,
and out and away.
I ought to sleep.
Alas I can’t.
My skin burns from carrying the day:
smells, sounds, colours have seeped into my epidermis,
setting the organ alight.
My stomach churns with thoughts and questions.
My brain spin tales and stories.
It won’t stop.
So you begin to sing.
Let the sound carry all away.
Let the sound quiet the stories
soothe the stomach.
All the while your hands move in their duty
of gathering an anxious child back into her body.

Christmas Eve

Rauchnacht Collection Day 01

Joyful chimes
Dance through the winter’s eve.
We are wrapped tightly,
In thick scarves and coats like down blankets.
Woolie socked feet, in big boots,
Crunch their way along the dark road,
Carefully determined,
Towards the sound of the bells.

Waiting are candle light, warm hugs from friends, carols to be sung, and nativity play.
Our noses numb with cold,
Mother, sister, me.

Stars decorating the dome above
Like the candles on our tree.
Snow is sparkling tinsel along the wayside.
We celebrate the light born.
Sun rising again and the days growing.
Stories blending into rituals,
Ancient tales in new dress.

The path, a road now,
Once carried mammoths,
And neolithic tribes.
And still we strive to the building on top of the highest elevation.
Coaxed by the sound of the bells,
To celebrate light reborn.
As we have done and will continue to do,
As long as the sun rises the next morning.