Today I'm posting a couple of poems not written to any prompt, so I am all caught up. That give me a couple of extra prompts to play with, if I can't think of anything for one or two of them. For more NaPoWriMo madness (whether using or not using their prompts) visit Readwritepoem here.
The usual disclaimer ie these are both very rough first drafts. Next month will be editing month.
Maggie offers us sloe gin.
It warms my throat, rises quickly
through my head as I sip,
and I wonder what's slow about it.
It's hard to find sloes these days
she says, you have to keep your sources secret,
and the penny drops. It's the small farms,
they're all being bought up, they're pulling out
the hedgerows where the sloes are found
like the farm we visited last week
where our greatgreatgrandfathers, brothers, were born,
the old farm house turned into fine accommodation
for ducks. For dinner there's meat and a big pot
of potatoes, plenty left over to fry for breakfast,
You're nae a Miller if you don't love
sautie tatties, says Robert.
Boat Houses, Loch Ard
From the road through a tangle of branches
we see the boat sheds, right way up
and upside down in the water.
Half the planks have fallen off the sides
and the reeds are growing up around them
- no boats have been here in years.
Behind them is a fine stone house.
Parked out of sight perhaps a Renault
or a BMW ready to take the motorway
to Glasgow. The sheds slant roofed
- isosceles triangle within scalene
- built by a geometer. Time has its geometry too,
they slant into the past,
when boats were easy transport,
up the loch to the village for supplies maybe,
or fishing to fill the dinner table,
or maybe just recreation for country gentlemen.
They slant away into the future,
where the reeds keep on growing up,
and who knows what form of transport
we'll be using?