I always greet red dawns with caution. Farmer’s daughter, I turn over countryside sayings like hard-boiled sweets in my mouth. The syrup long since sucked from the center, now all crunch and brittle, the shards pricking my gums in warning. No amount of scoffing, can keep my grandmother’s voice from speaking to the dawn. Soft, and familiar, chanting the same words, myth now made fact. Red mornings are both beautiful, and dangerous. We should watch for a change in the winds.
In some places the growth regulator has worked. The barley perches waist height, perfect cover for the pigeons that dive-bomb grey feathers all a flutter, deaf to the crow banger’s crack, crack, crack as they land in the elsewhere places of stems grown too tall not to loose their balance. In the shadow of the sheds there’s warmth yet, the sun is sunk but not quite set and the sky has turned to rust beyond the track where the tractors wobble outwards for one last relay before dusk can claim day. I’ve mixed two prompts tonight. DVerse Poets Pub’s challenge to write a poem about landscape while using verbs in an unusual way (I’m hoping I managed that) and today’s Daily prompt: Traditional. So here you have traditional Shropshire scenery with a twist.
There is someone juggling fireworks. Somewhere beyond these fields. There is someone juggling fireworks while I was curled cool and content beneath the weight of blankets with books to read. There is someone juggling fireworks now the rain has stopped. There is someone juggling fireworks now the wind has dropped. There is someone juggling fireworks in the calm after heat. There is someone juggling fireworks who’s pulled me back from sleep. There is someone juggling fireworks. Sporadic, out of sync. Who is juggling fireworks upon a country-side at peace. A quick free-write poem on a lovely cool Saturday night.