Lake Songs

photo: patricia wellingham-jones

Lake Songs   

 by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

On our usual bench

by Lake Almanor, we listen

to ravens croak among pines

and grebes call in the middle of the lake.

With our own words winding down

small water sounds emerge:

tiny slap of wavelets against a stony shore,

the rise of wind pushing its blue path

and the faint splash as ducks dive

beneath the sparkling surface.

Loon-song haunts a distant cove,

carries us somewhere

we never knew.

~ first published in Brevities

Reclining Woman

photo: patricia wellingham-jones

Reclining Woman       

by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Like a river siren

washed off her boulder,

spun through white water,

flung up on shore, she rests

against the bridge abutment.

Her legs stretch out on gravel,

weeds bend over her torso,

arms seem to droop at her side,

her head lolls in sleep.

From my deck across the stream

she’s a reclining woman.

Up close, flotsam and jetsam

from last winter’s flood.

~ first published in Rattlesnake Review

CLOSING THE CABIN . . . RE / VERSE post #200

photo: patricia wellingham-jones

CLOSING THE CABIN FOR THE WINTER  

 by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Pine shadows stripe the blacktop,

vine maples spill gold on the road,

willows dance orange tangos in the breeze

as we drive to the lake in late October.

Our voices bounce across the water like skipping stones.

A flicker hammers his way up a trunk.

Jays demand sandwich scraps

the year is too old to provide.

On the far shore a loon pulls down a rain cloud.

We hear the slap of rising waves on the shore.

Lightning slashes through steamy black wool

and insects shrill their alien tongues.

Around us the air explodes with sound.

The storm breaks over our heads

like soup bowls thrown at a wall and I

want to cower with the dogs under the bed.

Next morning with pipes drained, windows shuttered,

we leave in the first sprinkles of snow.

The mountain prepares itself for winter—

lake black in the coming cold, birds silent.

~ previously published in Autumn Leaves

Sunset Prowling

photo: patricia wellingham - jones

Sunset Prowling       

by Patricia Wellingham – Jones

Light shifts into crimson bars

across indigo sky,

fades as the moon rises.

If you still

your twitching thoughts,

you may hear the quiet pad

of prowling feet.

In full dark the rush of wings

ruffles your hair

and one small scream

signals the owl’s dinner.

Even after you’ve gone to bed

feet pad and prowl

under your window.

~ previously published in Medusa’s Kitchen