Tag Archives: Fantasy

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/

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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.

 

 


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 trying to paint a dragon in Amsterdam……….what colour???

Graveyard shift

Graveyard shift

In old Malay, draped in forest, lies heat swamped George Town
Where abandoned colonial mansions rot in new technological haze
Forsaken, cracked, diminished, atrophied
Yet evening jazz drifts from broken windows, lights flicker, shadows dance
New tenants, just for the graveyard shift

Old hotel, four square and white, now has modern facilities, pools, spa
The private beach, golden, secluded, is a long walk but a short drive
Courtesy coaches ply the mountain road past decaying  tombs
Extra guests take the last ride of the day, leaving the driver fevered
New passengers, starting the graveyard shift

Copyright © 2017  Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

….retold from anecdotes told to me by Nesa………. thank you……….

We live on the High Ground

I’m very pleased to have a poem in the latest issue of the excellent “Three Drops from a Cauldron”. My poem was inspired by a hut circle above a tiny valley on Exmoor.

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Welcome to Issue 11, the first one of 2017, and the changeover issue to our now-monthly, new-format web journal.

View original post 194 more words

Heart and soul

Heart and soul

Something seems to have punched holes in the sky
Ringed with burning hydrogen, glowing against the dark
So we can peer through to  blues, brighter stars
A sparkling alternate perhaps
Where life is sweet, death is no robber
All is bathed in glorious light
But look again, these apparent peep-holes
Are no miniatures, they are huge
Light takes hundreds of years to cross them
And millennia to arrive here with this picture
Celestial chrysanthemums colouring the sky
Tempting me to fantasy

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

astronomy-picture-of-the-weekend-8

http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap161116.html