The dimming of the light

I missed posting last week though I did consult the Oracle and did write a poem. We had one of the children staying for a few days, it was fierce hot, and I was struggling with a new round of line edits. I sent off the corrections yesterday (finally), so it’s time to catch up.

The dimming of the light

I hear an echo these summer days
in the swash of waves on the rocks below
the cool cave where she whispers her words.

I hear a weary faded colour
peach perhaps or old rose
like the pinched sinewy patterns in poplar bark.

We gave them warnings in the purple dawns
lava flowing electric green
plagues of tourists like the Northern Lights
the death of grass
the silent spring.

If they prefer their trash to the sight
of morning hares or moonlit hares
a meadow specked white and yellow
rain on new green leaves
the smell of the sea
new-cut hay
of a river flowing home
there is no hope.

Rain sighs into the sound of weeping.
Night falls.