Walkway Under Veranda
Crazy paved cracking pathway carry on,
Show under shelter of the veranda
There is still an ever bright chance of sun;
We’ll repay, some’ll stay, some meander.
Light In The Forest
Clambers around us,
Seeking to grow.
Mercy we’re pleading
In terrified mess,
Still hoping, but how!
Shine, gold light, make our
Way through the darkness
– Breaking black shadow.
Hope this finds you well, been foolishly slow with the writing, but in good news I have been accepted on to a HE Teacher Training Course, so I’m very much looking forward to that!
There will be a short story coming mighty soon, and an extra one in May I think.
On 8th May my wife and I are flying out to Canada for 6 weeks! It’s going to be amazing. We’ll be going to a ranch in Central Canada to ride horses and learn a few things first, and then over to some relatives in Vancouver for an adventure around there. Planning to either have cover for poetry to be posted, or continue writing and posting from over there. Either way it can’t be much more inconsistent than what you suffer normally – apologies!
Caw, That View
Plastics holding toes back from nature;
No scrunching in the dappled dirty ground,
And no hopping downhill to the bank
– It will have to be an observed day.
Taken last week some morning I can’t recall which, but I think those are bluebells and whitebells (if someone knows otherwise please inform me!). Either way, the flower heads have often made me think of faerys/fairys, especially wearing them as hats.
Bells Of The Forest
Ringing through Spring morning tree-shade
In green grasses, beside the light,
The Blue and white bells, there they grow
– Content as hats for flitting fae.
Feeling that this writing-based-on-photo (must be a better term for it than that; in fact, there may be but this will have to do for now: Scribo Picturae – I’ve put “writing a picture” through a Latin Google translate) lark had been going well I set myself the task of doing it one last time before the weekend, and then I went and got all sick – lovely. Not so distastrous as it could have been, but a few things have been missed or passed over; which is, naturally, frustrating. But ahva.
Fables, Depths, and Heights remains untouched I’m afraid – purely my own fault, not turning blame on to an illness for that one. The Elephant and The Nun is slowly forming in my mind and slowly on the paper also – satisfactory overall but no more than that. The next short story will either be Lucy’s Room, There Was A Wall, or Bacon and Eggs and Sausages (working title. Also why is bacon singular and plural when sausage has sausages to grow into?).
There may be a poem before midnight, if not you’ll see it Monday! Have a blessed Sunday all.
Don’t worry! The smoke coming from the stump wasn’t by my hand, I happened to find it, and it was dealt with by two park workers. (Peckham Rye if anyone’s interested.)
At first I thought it was someone with an e-cigarette relaxing on the grass and I was going to sneak a picture because it looked quite cool, but then I found no person, but a discarded cigarette butt burning the rotten log!
The poem below is about youth, discipline, stickability, and duty.
The Young Dragon And It’s Duty
The flame from a Southern Wyvern
Ashens the farmhand looking North,
For ferocious howling winds turn
The mind to wishing for the earth,
But simple burns the blaze of youth
Spent drying rotting stumps to death.
Still a blue and still a green grows;
Not a good leaf taken too soon,
Nor bad ones broken. And this shows
Young dragons must take care for whom
They fire a smoke upon – to end
A duty is a blessèd trend.