Water to spare

‘Water to spare’

~~~

A dog’s tail, an empty chair, an empty terracotta pot. Anticipation. Lush. Inside outside interaction. Who waters? Who sits? Who is the sleeping collie waiting for?

~

Yellow wall and red geraniums, green growth of many shades and shapes. Who chose the vibrant warm wall colour? A corner of a cane table with text heavy folded paper. A broadsheet. Who reads?

~

Can we guess the occupants’ race or creed or country? Could it be North America or Europe? It doesn’t seem parched enough for Africa or most of Asia or Australia. Water to spare for pretty household plants, a collie in the house not herding sheep or cattle. Time enough for reading the Times.

~

Just a glance at a small corner of a lucky life lifts and heals my heavy heart.

~~~

This is an ‘ekphrastic’ poem, ie a prose poem written in response to an image

I have been learning about different poetic forms from Alison Smith who runs the free Facebook group ‘Womens School of Metamorphosis, Radical change from inside out’

https://www.facebook.com/groups/wsmradicalchangeinsideout/?ref=share

Becoming crone

hair shaggy and long, yellowish grey

mane of wild mare on the moor

~

sun brown spotted hands, neck crepey

tales of giant turtle’s travels

~

paddling feet flattened and broad

limpet lumps clamping the granite in clusters

~

eyes fading sky blue to cloud grey

rowan bark silvered bearing bright berries

~

mind wanders, meanders, drifts dreaming

spider spinning out silky concentric circles

~~~

Those of you who would like to see more of my writing, I have joined Substack:

https://lizdoyle.substack.com?r=fibbn&utm_medium=ios

A Poem By Huib Fens

(from my painting  residency at Stiwdio Maelor in Wales, when Huib Fens was on a writers residency)

 

Liz and Malachy
She has retreated in Wales
under rafters, stretching
canvasses on frames,
boiling emulsions of
oils and waxes.
She smears and brushes until
land appears, still unknown
and undiscovered and keeps
on working it until it
liberates itself from her.
Two islands to the west,
in the harsh mist the ocean
is sending up the surf,
he is cutting turf in
long and muddy strokes
he will pile up with his
bare hands to hand-
knotted stacks while
groundwater runs into
the newly cut furrows.
Huib Fens, 2016/17