A Poem a Day (699): December train poems

 

Canvases

The water-bearer revels in blue,
scoops dripping earth in supple hands,
smells the drenched woven moss
where gravel paths traipse under waking stars.
Globules streak down silent canvases,
ideas woken by a single thought.
Somewhere, an urn will empty out,
its ridges worn by the prints of fingers,
an individual script of the heart.
We stroke passion with a palette knife.

The shark
 
Stone-grey on pristine sand, sunk in,
stripped bare of watery hands,
smooth backbone, ribless hide,
curved yet curveless, as if at rest,
land-ripped and swum out,
its etched prints obliterated
by human feet and racing paws.

Whole, it drifted in on the wrung tide,
mortally wounded. It lingers now
in black and white review,
almost entertainment, an awakening
to the fate of the oceans deep.
We remain as a shield, all muttering
our five-minute silence beneath sound.
 

Bookends

Motion breaks, swift recall,
steam exhausts, fuels a language
written in grey out of jest.

The watchers stand as bookends,
nod like magpies, silenced out.

Idle hands accomplish nothing new
without inspiration, a truce.

We lend knowledge unwritten,
a dial without a single number,
the contrary grown so fine
that no line exists at all.
 

The lamb

Dew-set, the open track yawns,
awaits the entry of the crop.

A lone lamb stands adrift of the flock,
stares down a valley of wildflowers.
Clouds flick their pearl cirrus wave.

Forlorn trees, a jive of limbs,
signposts to the effervescent breeze.

A red hand marks her hide,
the stamp of ownership too loud
to be forgotten. It stands forgiven.

In ignorance, the flock devour
the land, fail to check her wandering path,
leading her far from these verdant hills.
 
 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, December 2024