Southland
Sunset gels the hills in ersatz gold
a moment, then abandons the folded chamois
canyons of army green sage, eucalyptus
peeling like a tourist, promenades of asphalt
and oleander. Over all, the sky is a beast,
huffing down our necks the history of combustion
in cul-de-sac valleys. Smog uber alles.
The rows of anorexic emerald optimism
on dunes of grit and river pebbles
are a momentary seizure of reason; brave,
brief as peace, ever-alien to this tarnished
silver sky, this pressure-pot flatlands.
Natives carry their water with them. And air.
Ziggurats rise from the sand, glass wafers
glaze their stepladders like water. The highway
ribbons around them, a black river with no spring.
Artesian wells draw inky sap here.
White blooms in the twilight; flooded billboards
that co-opt Paradise. Brilliant neon crosses
mark the heart of God in the hinterland,
searing shafts that numb the eyes,
draw the darkness like a shroud.
Murmuration of Cherry Petals
Flung from the tree in perfumed dance
across the yard, in sweeps and glides
in twists and soars – more birdish
than snowish – fluttering
as April plays with the trees.
Unlike the days when a sleet
of petals hammers the yard,
these keep an elegant distance,
careening, yet apart
like flocks swoop in air.
Final waltz,
migration to death –
letting go
with so much grace.
Catherine McGuire is a writer/artist with a deep concern for our planet's future, with five decades of published poetry, six poetry chapbooks, a full-length poetry book, Elegy for the 21st Century, a SF novel, Lifeline and book of short stories, The Dream Hunt and Other Tales. Find her at www.cathymcguire.com
Sunset gels the hills in ersatz gold
a moment, then abandons the folded chamois
canyons of army green sage, eucalyptus
peeling like a tourist, promenades of asphalt
and oleander. Over all, the sky is a beast,
huffing down our necks the history of combustion
in cul-de-sac valleys. Smog uber alles.
The rows of anorexic emerald optimism
on dunes of grit and river pebbles
are a momentary seizure of reason; brave,
brief as peace, ever-alien to this tarnished
silver sky, this pressure-pot flatlands.
Natives carry their water with them. And air.
Ziggurats rise from the sand, glass wafers
glaze their stepladders like water. The highway
ribbons around them, a black river with no spring.
Artesian wells draw inky sap here.
White blooms in the twilight; flooded billboards
that co-opt Paradise. Brilliant neon crosses
mark the heart of God in the hinterland,
searing shafts that numb the eyes,
draw the darkness like a shroud.
Murmuration of Cherry Petals
Flung from the tree in perfumed dance
across the yard, in sweeps and glides
in twists and soars – more birdish
than snowish – fluttering
as April plays with the trees.
Unlike the days when a sleet
of petals hammers the yard,
these keep an elegant distance,
careening, yet apart
like flocks swoop in air.
Final waltz,
migration to death –
letting go
with so much grace.
Catherine McGuire is a writer/artist with a deep concern for our planet's future, with five decades of published poetry, six poetry chapbooks, a full-length poetry book, Elegy for the 21st Century, a SF novel, Lifeline and book of short stories, The Dream Hunt and Other Tales. Find her at www.cathymcguire.com
