Saturday, 18 August 2018

18th August 2018

grey clouds
limned with summer sun
cold morning


© Rachel Green 2018

5:30 AM
woken by a dog barking
through the open window.
Comforting, almost,
a childhood spent in the country
where foxes and badgers
would wander through the garden
and owls would call
from the tree outside my bedroom
and my father's angry "put that light out"
ere the electricity bill rose too high.
Only afterwards
did I recognise the bark
and realise it was my dog
barking at the dog star
and feeling very pleased with himself


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 17 August 2018

17th August 2018

morning pigeons
shouting down the chimneypots
first garden plums


© Rachel Green 2018

again with the poems
didn't I write one
just yesterday?
I'm more concerned with aching limbs
and that's just from yoga,
never mind the HIIT session
I'm attending this morning.
So fuck poetry.
I'm selling all my books.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 16 August 2018

16th August 2018

ripening plums
the tree in the back garden
in the rain


© Rachel Green 2018

stories
left on the shelf
remnants of childhood;
of an earlier self.
Do I need that signed pTerry
or that monogrammed Beckett?
I'll never read the paper copies again
e-books are my future
Armageddon forgiving, of course,
but I'll be dead then, anyway,
so why would I care about books?
Am I still a writer?
My tagline claims so.


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 15 August 2018

15th August 2018

enough blue sky
to knit a sailor suit for teatime
summer receding


© Rachel Green 2018

so tired
can't poem today
many words, small brain
gym workout soon
happy dogs


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 14 August 2018

14th August 2018

bin day
the wind kick cardboard boxes
small boy troubles


© Rachel Green 2018

the cat knocks over my shit
books, birthday cards,
those little figures made of string
that people give me
because one made them think of me
and was only a pound;
my jar of paintbrushes
my fruit bowl
my dog.
She doesn't care.
Just looks me in the eye
and extends a paw.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 13 August 2018

13th August 2018

brambles
scattering fresh berries
wild arum


© Rachel Green 2018

some trepidation
about to be rid of more books
I don't need poetry


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 12 August 2018

12th August 2018

blessed rain
just in the for son's barbeque
birthday greetings


© Rachel Green 2018

ritual
tapping into the primal
elements of fire, of earth.
the fractured bones of chickens
turned to white ash
threaded through the fabric
connecting to the people who came before
and those who come after.
The dirt beneath our fingernails
as ancient as the bones of the earth
and new as fallen leafmould.
High Tor


© Rachel Green 2018