Footsteps echo like ghosts.
Dust clogs the air, and
breezes rattle webs then
spin brown leaves
into dry devils.
Sentry swallows
dive from eaves,
startling us into
thumping dance steps:
one forward and two back.
A tiny beak chirps
from a mud cup.
The mother snaps
mosquitoes from midair,
hovering by the nest
like a tiny dragon,
eyes aflame with purpose.
We pace forward cautiously,
no longer sure of our primacy.
We emerge in sunshine,
glad to walk quietly.

Note: We may build the bridge, but the folk who live there own it. Do you ever feel the past hanging heavily over a place?

Posted by

Brenda Davis Harsham

Posted on

July 1, 2014

Posted under

Photography, Poetry

Comments

36 Comments

Pink Firewitch

In the cottage border,
Every year Firewitch dianthus grows.
Green shoots poke through the soil and watch for the
Return of paperwasps and swallows.
Then blooms open, greeting old friends.
Buzzing bees stop by for a chat,
A cup of nectar at their feet.

Sweet William’s cousin, the Firewitch thrives:
Pink stars fallen to earth,
Burning briefly, but brightly.
Crickets dance and fiddle.
Toads emerge from their long sleep.
The hum of summer reaches
Crescendo in the cottage border.

References: Better Homes and Gardens