peace

March 30, 2021 § 2 Comments

morning walk

those chattering sparrows

empty my head

~

Flight

March 29, 2021 § 4 Comments

nearly weightless it leaps

taking my broad bean seeds

that damn squirrel

~

Flash Fiction: the cemetery

March 21, 2021 § 4 Comments

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

The air is hot and dry, and the lichen-stained headstones are draped with clouds of slow moving pollen. Bees dip in and out doing barrel rolls. She takes photos so she can name them from the poster on the kitchen wall. The grasses and wild flowers are turning brown and the ripe seeds quietly explode. The smell too sweet. It takes her back to honey gathering time when she turned the handle of her dad’s extractor. It creaked and leaked honey and pissed the bees off for days. ‘I’m not surprised,’ she complained. ‘It’s stealing’.

She breathes in deep and wills the pain to stop hurting her head, to stop making her shout in her sleep. The dreams never wake her and she never remembers them, but he does because her sounds wake him. He sits up in bed and watches, his arms open ready to gather her.

The buzzing makes her sleepy. She sinks to her knees between two graves, and lies flat on her back, legs together, arms close to her sides. She breathes slower and slower until she forgets to breathe. She begins to feel light. Unseeable. Invisible. In a place where time doesn’t move. She can’t feel her body resting on the ground. She looks down. It’s there, it’s resting, but the eyes aren’t seeing. The grass is so long no one will see her.

So this is how it’s done. What will she say if he finds her like this? “I’m trying to imagine what it would be like to be dead,’ she’ll whisper.

His eyes will look at her steadily and his mouth will say, “And what is it like?’

‘It’s fine,’ she will answer turning her lips into a smile. ‘I like it’.

~

i am

March 13, 2021 § 7 Comments

drifting ashore

the sound of ocean surging through my body

a seashell

~

remembering

March 10, 2021 § 6 Comments

hearing the back door creak

the breath quickens

last years gingko leaves float to earth

~

Watching the pigeons

February 13, 2021 § 10 Comments

 Monday -
 on the platform again
 the day he goes to London
 breathing shallow
  
 waving i turn away
 the train gathers speed
 stiff happiness sliding off my skin
 i wait to get lost in the darkness
  
 looking skywards for strength
 I make myself a bell tower
 in this sharp bright light
 he shall be the bell.
  
  
 Just a bunch -
 a band of pigeons in the station tree
 preening
 nearly flirting 
 waiting
 for another to make the first move
  
 my husband calls them rat birds
 for taking the niger seeds i leave for the songbirds
 i suppose it isn’t really stealing.
  
  
 From behind the sun 
 a rush of air
 the hawk sharp
 a weapon grown fleet with need
  
 a jet strike deep into the branches
 i never heard pigeons shriek like this
 feathers fly and the hawk twists away
   inverts 
stalls 
a snap roll

 and is gone.
  
  
 The pigeons ruffle
 quick to forget
 settling back 
 quick to remember nothing has changed
  
 except the little hawk is still hungry
 and my breath has grown slow 
 and made more space around me
 ~
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   

february

February 7, 2021 § 7 Comments

the mist stayed all day

and so has my melancholic mood

invisible sunset

~

sheep

February 5, 2021 § 2 Comments

Changing Skin and other stories

A piece originally published in 2014. Completely forgotten about until a fellow blogger, Hanne T. Fisker found it while rummaging about on here. Check out her website where she exhibits some of her powerful and ethereal photographs. Thanks Hanne ! x

This is a fanciful haiku, as in reality what I am about to describe probably wouldn’t happen. No matter you say – it’s one of those Japanese poems after all where you can write whatever you fancy. And of course you’d be right; but the desire to communicate, using something other than the time honoured 5-7-5 syllable arrangement of the form, has propelled me to ramble on a bit about stuff you probably couldn’t care less about.

It’s about the nature of sheep, of which I know more than a little. Apart from their two defining characteristics, which are to escape when you’re all dressed up for a night…

View original post 447 more words

in the wood

January 30, 2021 § 11 Comments

that liminal edge

where my skin thins and i lose my edges

no longer i

~

perceptual choice

January 23, 2021 § 4 Comments

this morning’s grey

shares the slow exhale of my melancholy –

i inhale this wild beauty

~

Ananda Only

an empty space between silence & stillness

down river road

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