Pheasant Dreams (Ekphrasis)

Coming in to Land by Peter Wilkin

Coming in to Land by Peter Wilkin

Inconvenient snow
dresses the earth
promising stairways to the moon’s
fair round face tonight …

With little thought
of moon splendour,
a pheasant
is coming in to land,
a brief, impossible flight…

kawk, kawk –  a  dream slides
on the wind … a thin scent of spring
still lingers awakening memories:

avoid earsplitting pops,
flying lumpen lead seeds;
below –  iron sticks held by
two legged creatures sans wings,

picture  –
rustling hedges filled with
hawthorne berries,  hazelnut blooms
dangling like an old man’s beard
promising fat nuts …

red reynard hunts …

But today the hen yard entices
with pellets – the non leaden kind –
kawk, kawk – landing gear down

with a thump.

Open Link Night ~ Week 89

Late Spring Evening

Moonlight catches a cobweb
in the orbs of your eyes.

Wistful memories lurk
on intersections.

Someone else’s thoughts
waft between the clouds.

Cats sigh as delicious dark
oozes through screen doors.

The sound of counterfeit rain,
the hose makes streetlight rainbows.

Grass blades tickle toe whorls
as they spring up after each step.

The concrete footpath is cool
and smooth beneath the soles.

A tree rustles, a paw, a nose,
a possum munches guava flowers.

A young woman gets in her car
complaining on her mobile phone.

A moment later, she squeals the tires,
on the wires above, a possum crosses.

The moon has risen high
above the roofs, glinting on the tiles.

OpenLinkNight — Week 72

Paper Umbrella

Spokes radiate,
geometric lines,
above her crown.

The centre mast
lightly in hand,
satin smooth ridges
evoke green seas
rippling between
shores of  bamboo forests,
she sighs in time
with the summer breeze.

Beside her path,
fungi bloom
beneath veined
canopies of green fans
bowing in unison
to golden shafts
spilling through blue.

She slips off the path
into the dapples,
frees ripe spores
with beats of her heels.

Slivers of Necessity

He made a choice
to leave.

He walks with suitcase
on a lead, battered
muddy, frayed airline
barcode still stuck to its handle.

He avoids the biggest potholes
on the road, an avenue
of once-belching factories
now brownfields.

The half-light of the evening,
whispers, ‘find a corner
before it’s too late
draw paper shutters tight’.

Slivers of necessity
push upon his temple.

Snails slither horns erect,
a patch of mustard weed
delicious evening meal
he stops to watch.

He remembers frenzied soldiers
on a spiral staircase.

A stone by a drain grows
four feet and a reptile head,
he shakes his head in disbelief,
listens for the angry wolf.

He trips into a slimy pothole,
hears the lullaby of frogs.

Through a crack crowned
with razor wire, he edges
careful not to break his skin;
a door half open beckons.

Necessity’s bounty provides
refuge for the night.

For

Open Link Night – Week 9