Month: May 2019

passeri

passeri. a solitary and swooping old world sparrow swirls and swerves above me. it’s a swift and darting sky dance, around and about and sometimes through towers and torrents, sun-gold. this is may’s final extravagance, this setting crowning of these gentle hills that slope with grace into glassy water. soon will come the tumbling twilight. soon, too, these ancient, wisest, grotto trees, with their jade green leaves, which at first i thought new but in truth prove near-perpetual, in the salt-scent cooling and perfumed breeze, will transform, turn to shaking showering fountains. and their blossoms, having finally learnt their wealth, will, as pretty and as pale as sea pearls, and no longer bound, becalmed, but as if they, now, were sailboats returning home, they’ll break free of their branches’ binding, and this is their becoming, i suppose, their embracing of this bravest descent into a lower, brambly, harbour, home. and then, summer.

peridot and petal (diary)

bank holiday monday, and the sky appears to me almost splintered sphere, thin and streaked with high spears. i watch them twist and twirl and pierce. the softer, lower, clouds collect, too, and they look a little like sweet alyssum, lobularia maritima, countless clustered bunches of the smallest white and wheeling flowers, perfuming perhaps that palest blue, touching transparency before falling in showers. * above all that, the veiled stars. treasure chest filled with jewels over-spilling, or else many-coloured and shattered stained glass, cathedral window broken, its splendour scattered now all about a sanctuary where the incense is silver vapour and outside the walls, rhythm and pulse stretch darkness forever. * coffee steam, and two doves, deferential they’ll drink from the bird bath in the garden. again, the laburnum is lapping up the last of the light, stabs of gold and pouring flame for petals, peridot leaves and drops of sun, each a gentle proclamation, or perhaps a harp string plucked. fireflies caught and charged with beauty. * multa minuta modis multis per inane videbis …

silverpoint

the laburnums are draped in golden chains, yesterday’s ash washes away with the rain. spring lies beneath you now. and the night is silverpoint, and starlight. and the roses in the garden, are constellated, bone-white, as your skin turns to mother-of-pearl and pale flower and your eyes, sparkling-dark, are drinking the hour.

maritama

the imperceptible weight of light, i learnt as a little girl that the only proper way to count time, in the middle of may, is with dandelion clocks. cheeks pink as sea thrift, wishes on the wind. perfectly proliferous pappus, parachute, plume, they’re at their prettiest in the evening, floating gold filament and feather. sometimes in the springtime, even just the sight of them feels a sweet and simple glimpse of forever.

the gods and the grasses (may diary)

we are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs have bred forth, not pale solitary doves but eagles golden-feathered, who do tower above us in their beauty, and must reign in right thereof; for ’tis the eternal law that first in beauty should be first in might somewhere between the gods and the grasses, the horse-chestnuts are flowering. the trees are all in candle, lemon curd and blush, and each inflorescence illuminates in the storm scattered light that rushes above us. brilliance brushes branches. eventually, each bloom will transform into their own conker, in the autumn, when the countryside once again grows cold, mist-covered. but, for now, it is May! and a showy clematis is climbing up the trellises of the thatched roof cottage, with the stained glass roses, to whom this garden belongs. and, at the bottom of the hill, if you will, you can scramble over a fence, hop over a stream, and then, you’ve found your way to the edge of the woods. dandelion wishes, ginger beer in glass bottles, i’ve a picnic, …

silver bells and drooping stars

the fading constellations are far away freckles, the dawn stretches the night’s skin thin, draws the curtains on the last of the cascading lyrids. and then, a circling chariot. the light turns to amber, dripping gold, it’s a honey-speckled morning. the clouds are silver lined, a revolving speedwell rising. i’ll bundle blackthorn, hang hawthorn at the door, light and dark brought together and then tethered, perhaps they’ll bless the coming year. their petals are as delicate as mulberry silk, they’ll tear between my fingertips. i’ve silver bells, and drooping stars, and the wind is carrying along with it May, which is now weaving its whispering way through the wavering wisteria that has draped itself all over my neighbours house. sunshine, showers. an oak leaf umbrella offers supposed shivering shelter from the rain. i spot bluebells like lanterns strewn about in the shade. do you see how springtime sings life into colour, pulls at the seams of things, stirs skeletons from slumber? puddles and gutters become silvery streams and tributaries, or else tiny swirling storming seas, …