April 21, 2021 § 4 Comments
The bulge of summer gone
in a flurry
the leaves gathered
like a flock of dip stained sheep into corners of untidy gardens
under hedges of blackthorn spikes.
Now a place for beetles
to breathe slow
to play dead.
Winter crocuses naked
bending with no backbone
a blue botanical mistake.
Even the stars shiver
casting a weak shine on an empty field where slaughtered lambs once leapt
twisting in the air.
Only the young mothers remember that.
March 29, 2021 § 4 Comments
nearly weightless it leaps
taking my broad bean seeds
that damn squirrel
March 21, 2021 § 4 Comments
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’.
March 13, 2021 § 8 Comments
the sound of ocean surging through my body
March 10, 2021 § 6 Comments
hearing the back door creak
the breath quickens
last years gingko leaves float to earth
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 7, 2021 § 7 Comments
the mist stayed all day
and so has my melancholic mood
February 5, 2021 § 2 Comments
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…
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