NaPoWriMo #30: The Spring Tiger

In the shade of the sal trees by the silent grass
where the chital and the sambar grass en-mass
sits the ruler of the lakes keeping watch
while a butterfly rests on her tawny shoulders.

The tigress watches pairs of spotted stags
prancing and posturing side by side,
paying their usual menace no heed
for the monkeys keep watch on her

until they turn their back to the trees
and the mother of the maidens disappears,
stripes distorting her amidst the grass
as a ghost with white-spotted ears.

She lunges out from the nothingness
and the stag crashes to the earth,
teeth embedded in his throat
while alarm calls flood the forest.

NaPoWriMo #29: Herring Feast

A lone spout on the rolling sea,
towering above the surf.
The first signal of a great summer feast
and the first dinner guests start arriving.

The spouts billow out from the waves
followed by flukes breaking the water
like banners for the rest of the pod
directing them to the shoal.

The ring of bubbles rises,
a circle formed in the depths,
a net with no rope or mesh
in which the herring jostle.

The cavalcade of whales erupts,
mouths agape as though calling,
engulfing the school in unison,
gorging on the plentiful bounty

before turning and descending
into the ocean blue once more
to lay their trap anew
and relish the summer currents.

NaPoWriMo #28: Matriarch

Just when it seems the drought is at its end,
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.

The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.

An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.

The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.

NaPoWriMo #27: Song for Home

Five tries, two conversions,
the statistics required
to unleash mayhem onto the streets.

They flood out of the stadium,
pour through the side streets
into every pub in town,
singing to the sky beyond the rafters.

In the railway station
the pigeons start awake in their roosts
as the thunder of a thousand footsteps
rumbles up onto the platform.

A cross-city trains slithers alongside,
every carriage a battleground
filled to the brim like fishermen's nets
and hauled to cities beyond the hills

reverberating with drunken choruses
along every mile of darkening rail
while the city sings into the night.

NaPoWriMo #26: A Fox and a Bulldog

The fox forages on the open field,
eyes turned from the glare of sunlight,
black clouds swirling ahead.

He digs through the furrows,
hoping treasure lies beneath his paws
while rooks shadow him from the hedges.

White tail-tip swishing behind him,
the fox spots something emerging
from the hedgerows, scattering the rooks.

Short and barrel-shaped, lolling tongue,
wide face and button nose,
the bulldog tumbles out of the leaves.

Never has the sharp-nosed fox
seen something so ungainly
as the bewildered beast before him.

As the bulldog approaches, smiling,
the fox appears to cough, then chuckle,
and the rooks watch on from the hedges.

NaPoWriMo #25: Lava Flow

Mountain of fire, overlooking the sea,
snow cascading down the spurs,
occasional steam from the crater,
a reminder to the town in its shadow
that the mountain sleeps for now.

Sometimes the ground rumbles
and the crater belches sparks,
flecks in a royal blue sky
as the caldera simmers miles
under the seaside town.

The fire thunders from the mantle,
cascades above the peak in a wave,
while the molten flows smother
the groves, hissing and glowing
as the rock cools into new crust.

New shoots burst forth
from under the mountain's new skin,
the olives fester on the young trees
and the mountain resumes its slumber
till the caldera boils over again.

NaPoWriMo #24: Return of Spring

And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree,
watching as one season gives way to another.

Watching as the skeletal brown
turns to green, and the treetops

are now alive with birdsong.
Thrushes, finches, tits and robins

conjure up a chorus
of incessant cheer.

In the pond below the dove's perch
sits a chamber orchestra of frogs

all croaking in harmonic baritones
complimenting the treetop choir

heralding in the long days
and the longer sunsets.

And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree
singing as spring returns to the forest.