The copse
A full strawberry moon . . .
walking alone on a creamy June night
I cross railway tracks enveloped in nettles
and moss scattered with wild roses
then step into a wood. I don’t know
how many months have passed
since I last visited this copse
but there’s something on the border
of my memory that I’m looking for.
I stare at the entrance to a badger’s sett
or is it a fox’s lair or just a bracelet
of twigs. I stand there under the stars –
the hooting of an owl punctures the silence.
Like a hooded hawk suddenly set free
to fly, I breathe, just breathe.
Whale Song
I woke one morning at my cabin in the cove
to the sound of whale song as it interweaved
into the sleeves of the ocean waves.
Rolling refrains of humpbacks proclaimed
their summer migration to North Pacific waters
had begun. Males in a pod sang the same song,
then paused and repeated the rich repertoire
again and again. From the unfathomable depths
the slow booming hum cocooned my brain
and melodious repetitions soothed me,
a communication not of sight or feel,
taste or touch but patterned sound.
It haunted me all day. It haunts me still.
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Mary Franklin has had poems published in numerous print and online journals including Ink
Sweat and Tears, Iota, London Grip, Nine Muses Poetry, The Stare’s Nest and Three Drops from a Cauldron. Her tanka has appeared in journals in Australia, Canada, USA and UK. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.