This is a poem about a sunrise that happened. I had bought a camera to photograph the moon but next morning I looked out of the back door and saw a bank of pink beyond the washing line. I ran out of the house and into the fields round the corner and took the pictures (179) of the sunrise for the first time ever. I was as high as a kite! Here I am painting, reliving it, all again framed in words this time! An hour that morning was shaped in words over four days (then a little bit added at day 28)…….enjoy!
In the kitchen.
I boiled the kettle.
Then from the window
I saw a pink promise
Of the morning in the sky
Over the houses
Beyond the power lines by the road.
Grabbed my new camera
Flung on a coat
6.20 (by the power lines now)
It’s very early.
A golden pink morning is revealing itself.
In the distance teasing slivers of light peak
Between two distant trees
Suggesting a brand new drama from where I stand; much too close
Against the thud of heavy Lorries speeding past.
Move along towards the pink and take no notice.
Let them honk their horns at you.
You have put your lipstick on and brushed your hair
Ready for what you’ll see beyond………
Keep to the side of the road
Past the locked gate, and bad tempered brambles
And steer towards the angel pink up there.
Soon you’ll see a gap
Between some fallen Cotswold stone…. still falling…
where a wall still tries to sit.
You might just miss it ; a shadow under clinging ivy.
The wall, once fine is no grand lady now. Left alone,
Spirit gone, has pieces missing.
Moss clings to her in painful hold.
Embarrassed not about her time, she still knows her beauty.
Just sits bewildered as each missing piece of her is taken one by one
To add to some other wall in some other far off grand location;
Or is polished now: behind a closer cottage piece with pretty door.
Step through this gap, this scar, this shadow of a wall…….
Tread carefully into the stinging field you find
Be careful not to fall.
To stumble over signs of rabbit
To totter on uneven stones
Expect to slip on the odd plastic bottle
Between the nettles, burrs and bones
Quickly does it.
Find your seat.
The pink is burning, trumpets blazing
There’s still no place to sit.
But there is a tree to lean on over there!
Stumble on and lean on it.
Towards the point way beyond the power lines
And then towards the distant gate.
The pink spot is shining ever brighter just above it
And waves of angel dust are reaching from there ever higher…..
You have reached the front row
And what you see is just for you……….
No need to get distracted here….
No one sits in front of you
No one sits behind
No one sits beside you
You are quite alone
Do not mind the rubbish
Right beneath your feet
No one is selling ice creams
No one is selling fizzy drinks
This is the morning show……..
Above beyond, every wind dancing, peach cotton, cloud
Re-frames anew the centre piece, the sun, the jewel
in its glorious light stained piece of sky
Unfolding and pulsing to the silent music playing there
Just above the distant hills.
With sparkling light behind them
Wink and take their bow
The foolish traffic.
Blind to the delicate performance playing out above beyond their gaze.
The daily dose of coloured diamonds is playing in the sky.
The sky up there moves quietly breathing on, until its sun bursts free.
Towards the day
If you ever find yourself alone
Now, in the lower field, you’ll hear
The daring pheasant walk and
And Church bell softly ring the quarter hour
*And see my washing line
on top of the hill
The road moves fast
The cars and Lorries rush
And here their unnoticed brilliant horizon
When you decide to meet me
By the power lines
Meandering merciful morning.
The precious jewel in the East follows the sulphur Moon,
sphere of sumptuous dark sky bliss.
And then the long silent Night.
The slumber time world of wondrous vistas
in excursions exquisite.
The peaceful patient Night.
In which eyes of mine animated, alert, awake, amazed
follow Stars across Solstice Skies of turquoise Twilight.
Thank you Mark for this wonderful poem about the morning chasing the moon and straight into the night…I have taken your poem from the comments below where you put it and I put it here.. Its so like the moon which dips and hides some nights just as the sun does not rise or fall to order……..thanks Mark .Thanks also Mark for words I picked up along the way: *(Meet me by the pole where a cheeky angel spreads her wings against the Azure blue!) and then I heard the song ( laundry) and I put the washing line in up there.
Below: LINKS TO EVERY OTHER POEM I managed to write during National Poetry Writing Month 2014 mostly short and often just titles to pictures. They are gathered below as links Hovering and pressing a link should reveal a title and take you to the original
poem for days 1,2,3,4
Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13 Day 14
Day 15 Day 16 Day 17 Day 18 Day 19
Day 20 Day 21 Day 22 Day 23 Day 24
Day 25 Day 26 Day 27 Day 28 Day 29 Day 30
One thought on “llama”
Excellent Gill, it reads almost like a stream of consciousness, like you just wrote it down quickly as if you were reliving it. I felt a sense of urgency in it at the beginning in the sense of needing to get to the good spot to be able to see the sunrise. It is something I have done many times myself, once, about two years ago I saw the sky and knew that it would be a spectacular sunrise, so I went outside with my camera and a cup of coffee, I only intended to go to the end of the street for a better view and then 3 hours later after forest, deer, the duck pond and squirrels I finally made it back home with my empty coffee cup and over 300 pics.
Also in your poem I love this line “Past the locked gate, and bad tempered brambles”, especially the locked gate bit, I love the simplicity in it and the fact that it very much contrasts with the spectacular sunrise.
You’ve actually given me an idea now also, because I wrote a sort of similar poem to yours but I would never publish it as a normal post, but putting it on a separate page as you have done does seem like a possibility, and even to have the page as a “stream of consciousness” page which can be added to. I’ll need to type it out first, which considering the fact that it is by far the longest poem I have ever written, will be no easy task.
Now also because of your poem and that line “Past the locked gate, and bad tempered brambles”, I am singing a certain song in my head, Squeeze “Tempted” because it has a line “Past the church and the steeple, the laundry on the hill.” So now I’m off to listen to it…
Thank you for letting me tag along with you on your morning jaunt, it was most agreeable and rather wonderful.