September Light Falls

Ireland is a country of many seasons. Many, as the joke goes, all in a single day. But there are two months out of each year that are hard to beat whether the rain falls or it is dry. May is a close runner up, but for me, September is the month you cannot beat. It may partly be that I took up residence in Ireland in 2001 just at the autumn equinox. While Spring is fun, it can also feel a bit frantic. Autumn has a much more ‘Hey, man!’ vibe to it. The sunflowers still nod, but they don’t have to put any more energy into growth. They are tall enough. While it may not be relaxing for people herding children back to school, or workers returning from a late summer vacance, the earth energy is mellow. I saw my first puffball a few days ago. The only growth now is fungi. They are incredibly discreet about it. But what slays me most is the slant of light at this time of year. So that is what the Poetry Daily offers you on Day 361 of the 365 poem a day.

The Way the Light Falls

Like no other time of year...
This.
When dark clouds joust
with javellins of light
searing September sky.

Happy tears fall in sunshine
before brooding, petrol clouds.
See!
It's Cathy calling Heathcliff
or Tristan to Isolde.

Then
the meeting on the bridge.
Rainbows grow double
Come quick and look!
What's your dearest wish?

Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved

Between Seasons

There is definitely a nip. The air has gone crisp. I needed to put on a pair of socks for my walk. I am shaking out sweaters and greet them as old friends. Yes! Autumn in on its way. September is one of my favourite months – along with May. They are Goldilocks months. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right. Cool enough for porridge for breakfast. Warm enough that the rain doesn’t chill your marrow when you get drenched during a walk. It’s a season of rainbows and intense shots of light and then a lowering dark. It is a season to believe in miracles. The Poetry Daily began in this wonderful month and it will conclude the cycle of 365 days of a poem a day in September.

The nights are drawing in.There is a greater chance that I may wake in the amrit vela, the ambrosial hour, when the day is not yet born. It is a very special time, when you can feel the pulse of the earth. And while I was up, our internet had been knocked out, but was swiftly restored by our great local, rural internet provider Groupnet.


Between Seasons

It’s not full on
like midsummer's bright
clap at the crack of dawn.
No. It’s much more mellow.
The new day yawns.
It stretches. There is a chill
 
in the air. Time to pull on
a wooly or a fleece
to drink tea. To just sit
facing the blank day,
to see if my mind
can be empty
 
of the world’s cares,
its need for prayers.
It’s not half-light nor full dark.
Soon the days
and the nights, too
will know the perfect poise
 
the betwixt, the between,
have the equilibrium
and grace of ambling spider
pirouetting capers in its nets -
this time out of time,
the bliss of not yet.
 
Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved

Towards September

To the east of Ireland it is still dry and warm. Friends in England, both north and south, are melting in temperatures approaching 31C. But here in the ‘wesht’ of Ireland autumn is showing signs of arrival. While it is certainly clammy weather, the mercury is still hovering around 18C/62F. It’s close, but not overly uncomfortable. I am looking out at rain.For which I am grateful since we had quite the dry conditions until August this year. More hard rain and flash flooding and less soft rain altogether. The climate is looking less clement everywhere. Today’s prompt from 30 Days of Summer Writing Challenge is ‘Summer Nights’. I certainly have been remarking to myself the necessity of switching on the electric lights comparitively early these days. Partly this is low cloud and rain, but the nights are drawing in. From our cottage the late summer has a distinctly autumnal feel.

 Towards September

That sometimes of the summer bonus
with its daytime heat then nightly chill
crimsoning the house's creeper

Brings its surprise of electric light,
the clock saying eight o'clock
though we do not draw curtains
and windows are open for a draught

The spiders are full of industry
battening us with their silken nets
though the sunflowers stand
and face forward the setting sun

Soon equal light and equal night
the year cranking itself around
for a new season's wardrobe
shaking the sweaters out

Releasing clouds of cloth moths
the crane flies climbing the walls
legging it along ledges
watching moths flutter, beat their wings

Their sizzle, bumping and bumping against
the heat of electric light bulbs
blasting into long inky nights



Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved









Featured image Photo by Christopher Paul High on Unsplash

September is a Sometimes Season

I am fortunate in being able to make my own schedule most days. But sometimes those maintenance tasks that my friend Pen calls ‘life laundry’ cannot be parcelled out to one’s own bidding. That is when keeping up a writing practice becomes a time management challenge. Back in the last century, when still living in England, it often happened during lunch break while eating a sandwich on a park bench, or at my work station tapping out a draft when colleagues were out. You learn to use deal with time sandwich style.

So it is today, sandwiching poetry practice in between life laundry tasks and culinary activity.

September is a Sometimes Season

When sun peals like wedding church bells
and clouds are scarce,
a young man speeds along the highway
with a pretty girl by his side.
The soft top is down.
The wind teases her tendrils from her topknot.
They flail wildly
bedhead passion fashion.

The sky winks and a grey cloud lumbers along,
all middle-aged, a wrinkle and a frown, pre-occupied about
what to do to use up all those bruised apples.
By turns the weather is warm and sultry, then
the wind shivers your sweat.
In the evening you debate if it is worth switching the heating on,
just for an hour or so,
or maybe just to turn the electric blanket on low.

September is a sometimes season.

Copyright 2018 Bee Smith