ManicDDaily

Lawn of Thyme

This lawn, now all thyme,
a purple land mine
of dark buzz, wing shine,
unintended.

This lawn where such time
(no clocks in our mind)
passed, read line by line,
pages tended

each morn, afternoon,
voice struggling to tune
characters assumed,
beneath tree’s shade.

We read while thyme grew
then quick tiptoed through
sweet savory bloom,
our bee-loud glade–

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This draft poem is a Cyhydedd Hir, a Welsh form based upon a 19 syllable line, with a certain interlocking rhyme pattern.  I am posting it for Kerry O’Connor’s challenge on the poetry site With Real Toads.  I am not sure I’ve got it at all, as I am using (i) slant rhymes and (ii) stealing from – ahem – paying homage to William Butler Yeats who is Irish not Welsh.  (But it’s all I can come up with late Sunday night!)

FYI – the picture above is a lawn in upstate New York, which is largely made up of wild thyme at this point, and also is a place where I was lucky enough to spend many hours reading aloud to my children when they were small.   I hope you are also lucky enough to have access to such magical places.

Have a great night.