The Maiden Grass

It is a sharp, silver day -
Made by a wind
Grieving. 
Trees and reeds sway to bend,
Sway to bend
But the goldfinch rubs
His little head
On the spray
Delicate and red
With an unmoveable agenda,
And the maiden grass
Stands back up, her
Feather tips falling
Into the sun's 
Closing prayer.
Even as the cold air stings,
I see softness  
And the pencil grey clouds allow a
Moment for the plumes of straw
To be spun into gold,
Spun into gold. 

LJ Ireton 2024

Not Yet Spring

It is not yet Spring, 

When I can call my curated vines

Of violet and lemon meaning

Out of the ground

From winter's writhing roots;

That press against the edges of my mind 

And curl back around

In want of surety,

Sun-blessings,

The curiosity of others.

It is not yet Spring- 

The unravelling of the tangible

Into Time, 

That doesn't go back again 

Into the dark -

It dances on your lips,

Dips into hedgerows

In pastel colours 

Sense-making, 

Breathing purple.

It is not yet Spring -

When I can watch

What I already know

Like a kite,

Tipping its head 

At its tail,

Streamer roots

Tasting the sky.

Not yet. 

LJ Ireton 2024

 

Birdsong

There is a tint this evening
The robin sings in pink and grey
Even if no-one hears him, 
Like the birdsong gone before, forgotten.
I can dwell on reason so much
That nothing gets written at all, 
But the twilight tonight is lighter - 
A smokey rose 
And my words began on the branches,
Breathed out into the cloud lines
Pink and grey.
Maybe they won't be heard,
But it's about the saying -
Back into the sky
Living, before the night. 

LJ Ireton 2023