I took advantage of everywhere being in chaos as the new kitchen is fitted and also of the unseasonable weather. Out to do some work in the garden. I got prepared:
and then started on a sorry looking lonicera…
Happy days 😆
At the start of spring sunshine
in May, a clamour occurs,
an ignominious din.
She sees the lambs born
on a cool summer morn, stumble;
bumble, late in the daylight.
The sun rises at four,
red, ruby-gold glows up high
and christens the new-born babes.
It comes round, it goes around
it returns on this morning
of joy, of hope, of new lives.
Polly Stretton © 2012
For those interested in form in poetry, this is a Triversen which is described as:
The rhythm of normal speech, employing 1 to 4 strong stresses per line.
Stanzaic Written in any number of tercets. Each tercet is one sentence, a kind of natural breath.
Grammatical There should be 3 lines. L1 is a statement of fact or observation, L2 and L3 should set the tone, imply a condition or associated idea, or carry a metaphor for the original statement.
Alliteration contributes to stress.
Other ‘rules’ found on the internet:
Each stanza equals one sentence.
Each sentence/stanza breaks into 3 lines (each line is a separate phrase in the sentence).
There is a variable foot of 2-4 beats per line.
The poem as a whole should add up to 18 lines (or 6 stanzas). As you’ll see, I did not heed this rule, the poem seemed complete to me after just 4 stanzas 🙂
A witch astride her besom
is flying wide and high,
her cape flaps all about her
as she travels through the sky.
Her hair is black as coal dust,
she peers through one good eye,
as people far below her
look up, stupefied.
The final day of February,
beneath a wintery sky,
we find the local poacher
catching rabbits on the fly.
He is no big brave soldier
just needs some food to eat
before the world gets colder,
a stew will be a treat.
The witch sees him beneath her,
his gun slung o’er his arm,
she takes her eye out, polishes,
puts it back, still warm.
With clarity of vision
she sees a running hare
close enough for him to shoot,
she shouts out, ‘Run! Beware!’
The poacher takes exception
‘My supper’ he exclaims,
‘You’ve done me out of meat tonight,
‘for shame, old witch, for shame.’
‘Don’t you shame me, soldier,’
the witch forthright declaims,
‘That hare is running wild and free
’tis you should feel the shame.’
Polly Stretton © 2019