The Thin Line

The Twit has made a bath
of the roof gutter. Could I
change into that bird, shed my scales
and spread my wings.

I am just aflutter in the wind.
A sum of countless mothers
and fathers on the brim.

Squeezed between forbears
and children, who, like peaceful
doves, take off and find their twin.

My sister now gone and I alone
have caught up with her age,
her rage.

The Caan and Able myth
sealing her fate, one Saturday
morning.

A train of thought led to
her demise at a solid station.
The driver, a pawn in her scheme

unable to go back to sleep and face
another day at his post.
A farewell letter lingers

passed from hands to heart
forcing on us the irrevocable.
The thin line

changing our lives forever.
Were I to become that twit
enjoying its bath,

careless, free,
no cat predator to be seen.

©susanbauryrouchard

inspired by Billy Collins' The Barometer

On the wall in a dream house
next to the polished card table,

It hangs with hands
imperceptably shuddering.

Between the clouds and rain
it shivers. And when summer comes

it glides frankly towards sunny
spells with a hint of a drizzle.

When the air turns about,
gusts from the South,

dampness rises
from the meadow and wood.

The atmosphere becomes
a static bomb on the verge.

Its hands edge
towards a storm undeclared.

After pelts of water and hail
the cycle resumes.

©susanbauryrouchard

inspired by Billy Collins' The great American Poem.

If this were a novel
it would tell a story.
But characters rounded
to meet a rewarding suit

disappear into their actions. 
Who and what is left
but the narrator
and the reader ?

To get across to you
what must I do ?
Paint a picture
of the cottage in the woods.

Yellow lattice shutters
keep the narrative
snuggly inside.
And what about

the lady trapped within ?
The decor of her morning
room, the sun
seeping in ?

She sips at a cup
of strong tea
and reads the paper 
cover to cover

before sitting down
at her desk, to let
the pen flow
into a poem all her own.

©susanbauryrouchard

Other People

You hope to understand the world,
to be able to speak your mind. To learn
the language of others.
Be it Spain or Japan, or under your own roof.

©susanbauryrouchard

Sitges near Barcelona: keeping your balance

One day at a time
the pretense flakes away.
The washing and chores
rhythm my day.

©susanbauryrouchard

Irises have bloomed and already faded.

©susanbauryrouchard

Down

The night is darker than the most bottomless
pit. In the shadows, sleek lizards slide
over strewn rocks and worms dig into the earth.

No lights bother the surface or reaches the rim.
A stain of ink can swallow all colours.
The moon rises and catches the ghosts by surprise.

The trees' outlines stretch over the lawn.
The wooden barn is now distinct among the pebbles.
No one has stepped among the brambles in years.

The silence is streaked with the night owl's tune.
Lonely crickets chirp among slender prairie grass.
Ivy overgrown attacks the walls.

If nobody claims the farm, in a few years,
the roof will cave in and the door will stick open.
hinges dislodged.

All the childhood memories,
the quiet meals,
will be forgotten.

©susanbauryrouchard

In the Sidobre Mountains, Monts de Lacaune

Monday morning washing
the dark colours of the week,
take a peek into the neighbour's

garden, where the pool is still
hidden below tarpaulin muck
the brand newly born mosquitoes

fuzzing around in a cluster.
the cherry tree laden with leaves
and buds of fruit. Clear skies, blue.

The hedge needs trimming.
The daisies covering again
last week's mown grass.

Clean window sparkles bright
light. Spirits lifting in revolution
of stars, sun and spring.

Clothes dry in the warm breeze.
Peaceful silence of birds twitters.
Everyone back at theirs desks.

Tuesday morning will bring
new occupation, But I'll be
whiling the week away with words. 

©susanbauryrouchard

It's my Birthday and I'm going to make a cake…except I already have. My cake comes before my writing ! Oh , dear !

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC_TYb_VOqs

one of my favourite songs.

and easter sculpture in my hometown village

Spring in my garden