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slowly spring
corona has left me
slow to think, slow to act
slow to write – a 50kg bag of grain
three times the weight is was before
and all the while the planet is hurtling
towards our own inevitability so much faster
than most of us can breathe throughand francesca the goat labours
through the bright sky night
second of september and perfectly on time
and i wait to the sound of frog song
and a silence that hums my ears
for the first inhale breath and bleat cry
affirmation of life tender as the blossom
that leans bare branch, unfurling fragile petals
despite or because of what is –until impatient 5am under the star crazed sky
i walk out to the goat house.
first toad of the season, lean as winter,
crosses the path up ahead
my breath billows
dew bright in the torch beam
and slowly slowly it is springlong chewing a quiet breakfast
francesca the goat raises
her head at my presence.
tomorrow she says,
or tomorrow’s tomorrow –
there is still time in the world
for slow beginningsi waited a while in the goathouse
watched the steady rise and fall
of her abdomen, the sound
of their chewing shaping darkness into day
until the black rooster broke the spell
with his incessant crowing.back in the house the kettle
metal clicks its warming on the flame –
fingers wrap around warm cups
and through the windows
the sky pinks and greysthere time in the world
for slow healing
slow beginnings
quiet endings
still time
for Brendan at Earthweal’s weeky challenge: SLOWNESS
https://earthweal.com/2021/08/30/earthweal-weekly-challenge-slowness/
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we live by fire(and hope)
truth is the sun rose
this morning, splattering of light
low and cold – birds on high branches
moving and feeding to stay warm alive
shaking water from the trees
while cold feet
in thick socks and gumboots
wade the night rain become mud.
i know that inside a warm fire waits
and tea
always tea.truth is, arm down a burrow
in soft wrapped fur,
i find five new born rabbit kits
naked and blind
yipping at the cold of my touch.
they know as much of tomorrow as i
which to be honest
is nothing at alltruth is the world is so much bigger
than we can remember all at once
without losing the parts of ourselves
that re-member here.
and of course we wanted flight
so we have and had it
and wanted and wanted
and now we ache and we break
with all that we are losing
rage with the fires
that burn and melt,
but we are of no use to this world
scorched by our impotent rage,
more broken than that we hope to mend,
more lost than that we stand to lose.truth is my youngest daughter has covid,
and probably myself and oldest daughter too –
six days in and perhaps too soon
to write we are fine we are fine,
(though really we are)
because we know no more
than those rabbits down the burrow
naked and blind vulnerable
while blissfully asleep.truth is yesterday new moon
we planted first seeds of the season
all three of us outside
under a fast changing sky –
black soil, small pots
and names like prayers
on stick labels
tomato and marrow,
cornflower and bean.truth is the sun that rose
after rain that fell through the night
and watered the seeds that
were planted
were planted
were planted
For Brendan at earthweal’s weekly challenge: TRUTH IN A WORLD ON FIRE
https://earthweal.com/2021/08/09/earthweal-weekly-challenge-truth-in-a-world-on-fire/
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imbolc in the south
Swaartberg pass – July 2021 end of july
deep winter cold
and mountains capped with snow.
first day out to clear the beds,
spread compost like a blanket
thick black and warm –
new moon in august
we will plant the summer seeds.end of july
deep winter cold
out in the garden to prepare the beds –
trellis the peas while first cuckoos,
emerald green and tail flicking,
call from the bare branched searsia
brilliant against the ice blue sky
iridescent feathers in winter sun.deep in july
snow cold in the mornings
francesca full pregnant and shaggy with curls
watches while we build new lambing stalls
pile them soft with eragrostis –
she knows the waiting
for the turning of the year
and the spring she holds in her belly.end of july
deep winter cold
and mountains capped with snow –
we sit by the fire
drink endless cups of tea
speak the world
way into the night
while outside the windows
winter howled and hisseddeep in july
late winter cold
first blossoms open
like stars on a cloudless night
points of light on the bare winter trees.
and now we wait
warming seeds in our hands
with the breath of our living,
wait for the turning of the year
so we may sow what light has lived
through the long dark of winter
and reap what we sow
in the warming days to come.
For Sarah at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: Lammas
https://earthweal.com/2021/07/26/earthweal-weekly-challenge-lammas/
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epiphany
small and round
i found it where i walked,
a lichen twined nest of the batis
storm blownholding the perfect circle
nesting within my hands,
consumed by the miracle of forest
oblivious.light falling with leaves between leaves
revealed the old mare’s white mane
spiraled around with grasses and seed down
and there, woven tight and neat
a yellow thread plucked
from the flag we hoisted high
on the bean pole to watch the wind blow.in amongst the spider silk,
holding moss to lichen and grass,
in bright impossible knot work
was hair, human –
unmistakably long and dark and mine.
the gift was both a nest and a knowing
of slow entanglement,never more can i be
a mere observer of this forest
or stand separate and alone
in awe of its beauty
for today and a while now
our living is woven
inextricably
into tree.march 2013
first published in holy ground 2014
Linking to earthweal’s open link weekend #74
https://earthweal.com/2021/07/09/earthweal-open-link-weekend-74/
I was reminded of this moment (misremembered some of the details) when reading Brendan’s The Cardinals https://blueoran.wordpress.com/2021/07/08/the-cardinals/ submitted for last week’s weekly challenge at earthweal.
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entanglements
Image by Tamarisk-Ray Glogauer 1.
the world deconstructs us
takes us apart
until bone fragment and skin smear –
we are identifiable as human alone,
but our humanity exists in the world
we have torn ourselves from.
the one where a phalange in a cave in siberia
is not enough to tell the fern soaked story
of lives lived in tree shadow,
tell the stories between blood and water
breath birth and death that prowls just beyond
the light of fire
the warmth of touch
and stench of living
close.and yet and yet
we are this world that deconstructs
and cleanses us of our humanity; this
and everything we were before,
the ghosts of our living past
doing a merry bone dance
alongside our daily shuffle
from bed
to work
to bed.2.
alone in a room
lights dim curtains drawn
air-conditioner breathing comfortably
in perpetual nowhere time.
alone in a room
a child a man
a human sits
amongst the plastic debris
and food waste of their living
controls resting in limp hands
while the room staggers pauses
flashes blue with a repeat message
on the screen
game over
game over
game over3.
alone in the dark
by torchlight
my daughter and i
check the rabbit house for damage.
woken 2am by a voice
that must have been the soundtrack
for every monster movie ever made
and who knew they even made that sound
until we caught them teeth bared
in a beam of light.
but now is dark and chill as we
cautiously reach into the too quiet night –
trying to hear if they have gone,
honey badger
mid-small and bumbling
cute at a distance, but crazy strong
and ferocious enough
to take on a pride of lions
if need be.they are not messy hunters
no blood – clean neck break,
prey carried off into the night.
silence.and hard as it is
to tally these midnight losses
we, the rabbits, the humans,
the badger, the chickens
the goats, the genet, the caracal
the cats, the owl, the sunbird, the moth –
we live by this forest –
live by the life growing green verdant
on this forest edge.much as we live by the world
and think there is no balance and check
think that this world of glass bubbles
and steel does not have to obey
the laws of the earth that it is –
are surprised when balance
looks like a dust storm,
a heatwave
a virus.and there is nothing to be taken personally
there is no person, big picture, separate
or alone
the only single entity
on the planet
is the planet itself
and even then
it is unlikely she lives
untethered and alone
in the aching darkness
of forever.4.
breakfast was toast.
sourdough from the market
farm butter
poached eggs from our hens,
black australorps
large and friendly
feathers dark as night shadows
offering them some protection
on the forests edge,
fiendishly smart at break out
and break in plans,
competing with us for garden greens
which today for breakfast
are piled high on the poached eggs.
coriander and basil,
red mustard , new zealand spinach,
some late chillies and garlic
all chopped and doused in olive oil.
a midwinter mid-morning feast.after years of this
there is no denying
that our bones are built
of the soil of this place –
our blood the tree sap
that rises in spring.5.
we have town clothes
well not really, but sort of maybe,
just shoes that don’t tramp goat shit
on the hallowed marble floors
of the local mall,
shawls that don’t traipse the forest
in our hems as we walk,
pockets that don’t rustle a handful
of oathay and a few clinking nails
amid the hush of white noise and unlight
of extended hour shopping
where we walk among many
masked and alone.6.
long crested eagle
waited roadside post
its crest flapping
inelegantly in the breeze
as we made our way up the hill
down the road
to our home –
we stopped the car
dirt road quiet
and watched
as she watched.
us.
until enough of the laughter,
and the foppish crest flapping,
we took to the sky
lighthearted.7.
again a prediction of night gales
again a fire risk warning
today 8 july
21 500 new cases
in the last 24 hours.
it is hard to hold the balance,
hard not to surrender to the fear.8.
there is no prayer
i can speak
for this time –
there are no words
i can shape
into winged beasts of hope
that may fly the forgotten skies
of tomorrow and tomorrow,
seven generations down.
i can only speak
to this darkness
that knows
the dawn will come.
and know that we are,
every bark leafed,
clawed and slippery skinned
one of us,
that we are the hope
of our ancestors
who lived
long enough
to hope.
For Brendan at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: Interdepence Day
https://earthweal.com/2021/07/05/earthweal-weekly-challenge-interdependence-day/
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matins
two nights of wind storms
have blown my fearless coverthis morning the light
moves quiet as a snake
and golden across the hills –
illuminates tree by standing treefor now the wind has settled,
silent and stripped bare
the world wakes –
my feet crunch brittle
in the fallen leaves
picking a way between
dropped branchessmall birds are counting their living,
calling to each other high and sweet
from the new swept trees.there is no hiding
under a big storm sky
we hunker down
we wait wakeful alert
we pray.in this slow morning sun
i check on the seedlings
tend the peas
take note of what still stands
what still holds
despite it all.vegetable garden damp
seeps the hems of my skirt
the taste of gratitude
like new raspberry
on my tonguehigh against the clouds
ibis still fly their prayer runes
across the skywhere our words have failed
the earth still speaks us.
For Sherry at earthweal’s weekly challenge: A PRAYER FOR HARD TIMES.
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winter solstice
1.
this morning
the moon sets
in a song wing sky
and the world turns
towards the light.2.
there is a body count
in this poem,
between the lines,
between the writing
and the reading of this poem
people have died,
as a third wave rises tsunami
and we track its progress
continent to continent
until it crashes our shores,
until tuesday
smashes records
for new infections
in a 24 hour perioda pause for breath,
line end
or comma,
might be the last
for anotherby friday his grandfather
her mother
their sonsometimes
after a stanza we wait
to see what still stands
in a world that
falls
and falls apart.3.
on tuesday before solstice we got the call,
home approval from the spca,
so we could bring the scrap cat home
from the shelter – and of course
we did and would,
knowing she had shown up for months in dream
before we met her in real, even knew her name
and the way she would curl up in my lap cross legged and purr.
her lantern eyes shining bright against the black of her fur
she stepped forward from shadow
and so it was and so it is.but it is hard to be joyful
when her quiet turned to illness
and the little bone body
tented skin – backward and forward
from shelter to vet and home again
and weakening.
waking again and again in the night
to see if the little body still breathed,
syringing water by the ml
watching to see if she kept the food down.and all the while hope danced shadow veiled
while the big being dream cat
wrestled the frailing kitten scrap
knowing the line
between the living and dead
is smudged solstice thin
by the the turning of the year.sunday before solstice
she walked her bone feet
to the bowl and ate unassisted,
drank water as cats do.
midwinter monday she lived.now as i write morning cold
she sits on my shoulder
watches ink become word.
purrs4.
it is hard to be solemn
carrying our lanterns
up the moon bright road mid winter
bare arms to the soft evening air
barefeet to the leaf crunch
gravel earth underfoot
after bergwinds had us feign summer for two days
and the fast approaching full moon
had us crazy belly laughing
and silly singing under the watching sky
while the wind stole and stole our flameand it is hard not be solemn
singing those winter songs since the fires came
singing rise up o flame with half our breath
the other half held in prayer that the flames
do not rise up on the bergwind
that blows hot across the desert
to cool its feet in the ocean
billowing mist along the beach
while the forests swelter and crisp.at the top of the hill we pause
and as the silence yawns
in the road on the hill
and our lanterns burn bright
with the light that we are –
we turn and turn again
turn back to face this past
that has marched us
to an uncertain future.
turn to face the future
on the edge of our imaginings
turn to the road
as it curves out of sight
turn to the sky and the moon
and the gods who still
wait with baited breath
for us to remember
that there is nowhere else but here
and this song has been singing
us from long before this eternity,
back down the hill
we sprawl on the lawn summer style
lanterns flickering
there is no untouchable
on this holiest of nights –
we bray a terrible bohemian rhapsody to the stars
listen to frogs
feel the cool of earth seep to our skin
remember what it is to be holy.5.
unravel
from this time thread
and lean into foreverfor Brendan at earthweal’s weekly challenge: A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAMTIME
https://earthweal.com/2021/06/20/earthweal-weekly-challenge-a-midsummer-nights-dreamtime/
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understanding history as a list of actions that became us
in the beginning in the beginning
was the single song of the songbird
that broke the dark silence
and pierced the quiet sky
so the singing of this world
might beginin the beginning in the beginning
the nightjar tumbled
moth winged bat whispers
across the path and into skyin the beginning in the beginning
was the grey ocean of pre light
cresting silver waves to the moonin the beginning in the beginning
our voices measured the dark between us
our words unshaping the world
that held us bound, making it anew
as the car crept closer to the dawn
our headlights counting trees.in the beginning in the beginning
we knew the world we were becoming
listened for its voice among the falling leaves
smelled it on the salt tongue mist
that licked the shore.in the beginning in the beginning
was this daily commute,
this stretch of spirit become flesh,
action become world,
this pause between the rush
of dark busying and the school bus
that meets down the hill.in the beginning in the beginning
was the red light of dawn
stretching the expanse of heaven
above the dark mountain
of all that was and would be.
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returning to dust
1.
it is a long journey
from dust to dust
becoming and becoming
until we are
no more2.
today i sort the wool
rank with goat
and dirt of living –
hook out the bristle thorn,
lucerne stalks and seed debris –
air it on the table in the sun.
sinking fingers into
sun warm fleece
to say the prayers of thanksbecause how can this not be holy
grown of the forest
and the sun and the earth
until shaggy with curls
and tree entangled
we meet eye to eye
on the cutting table.harvest days spent in the goat house
conversations rising and falling into silence
while they press their soft foreheads
into dip of shoulder, leaning into us
as the long curls fall to the ground
to be gathered and sorted and weighed.when winter comes
we will spin washed fleece
by the warmth of the fire
hearing it speak the names of our gods
from lap to hands to bobbin.3.
in the caterpillar soup
of this transitional phase
when all we thought we knew
of our work in the world
is being dissolved
amidst virus and enzyme and dust
that storms thick billows
from unbreathable desert.in this time of transition and transiting,
it is the imaginal that knows
what we never knew we knew,
every thought brought forward into action
from the deep of our knowing matters,
becomes matter in the world
we want to be.4.
i don’t think i ever mattered to him
any more than he could have
mattered for me
and i don’t say that lightly –
i think we crystallise
the immensity of who we are
into matter – into embodied form
when we love fierce enough,
love enough to animate flesh –
to become an earthbound conduit,
sharing and shaping energy into form.
no, i don’t think we mattered
at all.5.
the potter sounds the cup
to test if the making is whole
a cracked cup, no matter how
fine the flaw, cannot ring
with the sound of its making.in the same way
words written longhand
by light of tree
or moon or LED,
shaped digital and saved
by the transient gods
of data preservation,
are tested by the wind
given breath to sound them.
to hear if the note
they played from the deep
holds true.6.
and then what of these moments
under a summer night sky
when the space between
is no more
and the leaves
on the apple tree rustle
untouched in the moonlight
and everything ripples
ecstatic skin
in voices full soft
saying it is beautiful
it is all so beautiful.7.
it is the slow grind
of coriander seeds
picked early autumn
in the black stone
of mortar and pestle,
the spinach gathered
thick dewed in the morning,
it is gloved hands on the wheelbarrow
while raven shouts the sky,
it is pawpaw and kiwi and plum and grape
and chilli grown too tall to reach.
it is the slow everyday eating and being eaten
until i am here, the location,
becomes i am here,
the being.8.
because what do we live for
dust to dust
but this.In response to Brendan’s excellent essay earthweal’s weekly challenge: EARTHCRAFT(a way of working)
https://earthweal.com/2021/05/31/earthweal-weekly-challenge-earthcraft-a-way-of-working/
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sanctum
Photo by Tamarisk Glogauer 1.
there is no sanctuary
but here, waiting
in the soft between
rib and hip
and small of back.2.
first light we walked the waters edge
amid the silence and the shuffling reeds
waiting for the dawn flight of egrets
hundreds of white wings
flying the seam between river and sky
like breath across the water.3.
we came here to this place
this steep catchment slope
in the rain shadow of this mountain.
and perhaps we wanted
green pristine light leaf through forest
and stream that flows forever clear and clean –
but we were not that.thick wattle infested
with snares hidden among
old growth forest in the ravine.
the skin of the hill crackled dry
and disturbed.4.
fed the goats under a low rumbling sky
in the goathouse we built through the summer.
found and old door with a porthole,
wooden walls, sod roof.
inside all is quite but the steady chew of cud
and the sibilant sighs of new rain in the roof grass.5.
these are our holy of holies
the prayers that shape us
and the living between.6.
we cleared the wattle.
finding forest trees and old scars.
had bonfires to the aching moon
burning the root stumps
sending sparks into the clear night sky –
we learned who lived here –
sometimes by bloody encounter in the henhouse –
sometimes by quiet recognition of other
while the mpephu grew waist high
and the seedbank dreamed a forest into being7.
how many years in the vegetable garden
last light, until trogon showed up
perched silent incandescent
on the fence post –
watching the scrape of hand furrows,
planting of seeds
in soil black soft now with time.8.
in the counting
of these numbered days
when waves no longer hiss on the shore
but counts its toll in available beds
and percentages of patients recovered
nine eggs from the hen house this morning
are solid smooth sanctuary in my hand.9.
we planted in the name of the goddess
and sought blessing of the gods
we never knew,
and we grew.by the time trees new planted
were casting shade
the girls were naming their own gods
singing their songs to the soft growing earth
and my father had died here
his ashes becoming the landand the years turned
and turned again
and the rhythms of seasons settled.
a wood owl landed with claw scratch
on the steep pitch roof of the house
to sit the night in deep song,
slowly slowly
hill becomes forest becomes sanctuary
we took time
we take time
to heal.10.
high summer i had gone
to the steep slope forest again –
to the tree at the centre of the centre
given myself to that yielding
forest floor, slept sun-dappled and adrift
amongst the curve of root and crunch of leaf
until my skin was no more
no beginning no end.
kingfisher called me from sleep
called low branched loud
just beyond my reach
called until breath by breath
i took form once more
found feet
and walked the world anew.11.
there is no temple
but here, waiting
in the soft between
rib and hip
and small of back.this is our holy of holies
the earth prayer that shapes us
and the space that lives between.
Posted in response to Earthweal’s Weekly Challenge: Sanctuary
