Tag Archives: Fantasy

Dark Land

Night has come
the land is dark
waiting for moonrise

Owl trembles in her branches
rabbit watches from her hole
vixen eyes the shape before her

Something moves brokenly
twists and turns
into a new form

Screams in anguish
agony and terror
as moonlight strikes

 

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

There is an English tradition for ghost and spooky stories at Christmas and New Year.

Friday Poem: All that is gold does not glitter

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

by J R R Tolkien

The Colour of Dragons

The colour of dragons
Depends

Sweet green for new hatchlings
To hide in high grasses

Black and red for an Emperor
Or a burner of crops
Many turn as gold as their treasure
Perhaps part of ageing

What colour a city dragon
Lurking on rooftops?

In Paris, creamy white as the buildings
In Berlin and London
Perhaps a glassy hue
Criss-crossed

In Amsterdam?
Turquoise and purple
With scarlet undertones………

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

I’m at Eastercon (the UK national Science Fiction convention) this weekend, with paintings in the Art Show……..

P1220291

 

Poem : Our Secret

Take the third turn over there
by the weeping willow at the barren stream.
Turn sharp now into brightness
or you will miss the crease,
that flaw in time’s weave you must push through
(sometimes my shoulder gets stuck, but I persevere).
Once through, stay low, part and peer through high grasses
watch the herds roll past.
Tusks upraised, immense cinnamon woolly hulks,
regally righteous, grassland behemoths,
lords of the plains
(yes, indeed, the land is flatter here that it was back now).
Be ready for the noise when they cry out,
it reverberates all through your bones
oscillating ears to numbness.
The hulk and bulk of them is prodigious
and worth the squeeze.
Whether it is worth the panic
when you finally realise
the directions home are missing?

Is up to you.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

First published in  Crannóg 49, the Irish print journal, http://www.crannogmagazine.com/

Changeling

by Leah Bodine Drake

I am out on the wind
In the wild, black night;
On the wings of the owl
I take my flight,
On the ghostly wings of the great white owl;
And whether the night be fair or foul,
Or the moon be up or the thunder growl,
Happy I be,
Happy I be
When the changeling blood runs green in me!

When meek folk sleep
In their dull, soft beds,
I creep over roots
That the weasel treads,
Where the squat green lamps of the toadstools glow —
And only the fox knows the ways I go,
And nobody knows the things I know. . . .
Wise I be,
Wise I be
When the changeling blood runs green in me!

O Mother, slumber
And do not wake! . . .
Thin voices called
From the rain-wet brake,
And the child you cradled against your breast
Is out in the night on the black wind’s crest,
For only the wild can give me rest. . . .
Sad I be,
Sad I be
When the changeling blood runs green in me

from https://poemsofthefantastic.com/changeling/

To the rabbits of Sandleford Warren

Dog roses sprinkle the green
lean and stretch over chainlink
pleading asylum.
They probably don’t gas rabbits now
but the path to the Downs
is lost these days.
So, this time, when
the houses are built
for real,
will you die
or will the spirit of Fiver
get you all out?

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

The wonderful novel Watership Down starts when Sandleford Warren is cleared to make way for a housing development. Reality is about to follow fiction, as Sandleford is a real place, a landscaped parkland that has reverted to fields. A housing development has outline approval for the site –despite the best efforts of those of us who live close-by. We marched in protest holding high large portraits of Hazel, Fiver and the other heroes of the novel…………………….

Burning

English summers, often damp, can invoke long stifling twilights
nothing landbound needlessly moves
contrails crayon across the sky
so many, this close to London’s hub.
Distantly, the buzz of a low plane, pleasure rider reaching up
into the realm of the starlings as they susurrate
a car comes past in the lane droning away round the curves
here the runway cross remains
the old tower still stands intact
as ponies munch and cattle chew
larks lurk in the grass where bombers once turned
occasional ironwork testament to hydrants and gun emplacements
war and weapons layered over by Nature and time.
But, as the dark deepens, the lost come home
tearing blazing incandescent screams rustle up drowsy birds
look up and the dazzling burning blurs past
metal screeches as it tears apart, each time the same
one last attempt at landing whole, at bringing the crate home
so wanting to see sweethearts and Blighty again
then gone, back to oblivion.
The burning pilot saluted you as he passed.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

This poem first appeared in Peacock Journal earlier this year.