Starling
Theatre
the sky is aflame
a weary sun
and brooding twilight
set the stage
for a primal ballet.
though you
lost your ticket long ago
let the dying
leaves of autumn
be your usher
let the
frosted light of winter
be your seat.
the velvet
curtain lifts
a hush
descends over the auditorium
limbs freeze
but your gaze flits
as an ensemble
of thousands
ascends and
plummets
crushable
bones cradled
in the wind’s
palms.
witness the
intricate ebb and flow
of wing and
feather in surreal formation
witness a
pulsing black cloud
of liquid
synchrony.
fastened to
the ground
burdened with
flesh
and fears of
tomorrow
you feel the
swelling and diminishing
the twisting
and soaring
dipping and
whirling
inside your
heart’s unchartered crevasses.
mouth open you
clutch the programme
soul yearning
hungry and
bruised
you wonder
why.
like a
concrete slab
beneath
fragile feet
science
explains with cold words
that bite.
the truth is
this:
we dance to
cherish the sun
and honour the
moon
to serenade
the oceans
we dance for
the innocence of butterflies
and the
fertility of bees
to hear the
symphony of flowers
celebrate the
creaking pirouette
of the earth
to learn the
cosmic poetry of ancient stars
to lament the
desolation of cities
and cruelty of
humans.
we dance for
love
for ourselves
for each other
for purity
for joy
for our
collective memories
each one a
glittering salt grain
passing
through eternity.
after the
finale our absence
fills your
lungs like seawater.
with glazed
eyes you stumble
home.
To Walk In Ancient Woodland With You
Sometimes I wonder
what it would be like
to walk in ancient woodland
with you
and hear your breath
mingle with the murmurs
of mycelium and the sighs
of beech ash elm oak and fir.
whenever the path narrows
you move ahead
protective
interpreting the variegated shades
of my silence with ease
so many hieroglyphs
etched in bark.
instead of concentrating
on knotted roots
bulging out of the ground
and hazel branches
weaving the breeze
I trace the lines
of your back and shoulders.
samaras spin to the earth
lacework patterns of light
mottle the debris
as we watch the lilting flight
of a fritillary
and the stately march of a stag
beetle
going to war.
crossing a rippling stream
of blue silk
I lean against you.
strange how moss
can render rock soft.
moving deeper into the woods
we study the intricacy
of lichen
our boots disturb fungi
until the air is thick with a
confetti
of spores.
a gentle rain falls
unfurling ferns
and fattening tender buds
filling our nostrils
with loam and resin.
entranced by the nightingale’s
melody
we separate
shadows encroaching
until I grasp your hand once more.
at the cry of a tawny owl
darkness falls
the way back is fading into mist.
no matter
you are my lantern and north
star.
Intertidal Zone
there is a moment
when the sea pulls away
leaving us naked
raw and exposed
to the blazing sun,
withering
on a shore of fossils
and broken shells,
a silent scream
tangling in the soft tissue web
of tongue and throat,
cells gasping for air
in a shrinking rockpool
of our own creation
where we convince ourselves
the suffering is worth it
for the relief
when water floods back
and we submerge
safely hidden
in the cold
dark
and quiet
of all we have
ever known.
Witches’ Circle
On a raw winter’s day
the sky roiling
pewter
with tender flesh
seared
by inquisitor’s metal
she fled through
cursed woods
and into a witches’
circle.
Beneath tangles
of ancient yew
where myriad pests
etched
indecipherable
secrets
water bubbled from
knotted roots
she supped until drowning
for no spring slaked
thirst
within a witches’
circle.
Afeared of the crows’
rapture
at the feeble sun’s
descent
she crawled over
decaying litter
north south east
west
scrabbling at unseen
iron
another mewling
victim
ensnared by a
witches’ circle.
Clothed only in
memories
of a red-ribboned
dress
gnawed by frost
and hunger
she plucked
glinting death caps
lumps of cold
moon
but no poison permitted
death
within a witches’
circle.
Darkness unfurled
from branches
suffocating with
its weight
until even the white
stag forsook her
melting into leaves
and shadow
antlers bowed with
regret
for all were lost
who stumbled
into a witches’ circle.
Midnight swarmed
closer
bringing bestial
nightmares
drawn to the
symphony
of blood’s pulsing
rhythm
how ruthless fangs
gnashed
to behold their prey
safe
within a witches’
circle.
Woken by raucous
laughter
and lashing tongues
of fire
hand clasped she rose
above the yew
thirteen black
feathers floating
cavorting until
dawn intruded
and they claimed
her as their own
for she had fled
into a witches’ circle.
Love Apothecary (a haiku sequence)
aromatic basil
a handful to
repel
the unsuited
sweet rosebuds—
dipped in honey
for tenderness
elegant lavender
a crown worn
for harmony
sensible poppy
a seed head under
the pillow for
guidance
fragrant cardamom
a pocket charm
for good luck
exotic
frangipani—
flowers set on
fire
for devotion
protective
rosemary—
sprigs scattered
to guard against
hurt
precious orris
root
a fine powder
for stability
holy verbena
a draught for
enchantment
seductive
mandrake—
amulet of root
to inflame desire
brooding bay
laurel
a leaf torn to
prevent
infidelity
healing amaranth
a tassel woven
around a broken
heart
dark henbane
coils of incense
to bind another
Farah Ali writes fiction and poetry with a particular love
for the short form. She has been published, and has upcoming publications, in a
variety of reputable online and print journals. Her supernatural Deerleap
Hollow Series is available from Amazon.
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