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.

____________

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.