The world woke to a glimmer of swift shadow, dancing and drawing down the moonlight. The wolves of the forest had leapt from their bones, ghostly figures that ran effortlessly amongst the trees. The pine needles shivered gently as they passed. The wolves could still be heard, their murmuring whistles and calls wrapping around the house, clawing through the walls. She woke. She listened. She cracked the door ajar and greeted them. New friends, new dancing partners.
Tuesday, 7 April 2020
Pale, in the moonlight, her form glows between the break in branches. Feathered leaves, green-grey in the dying light, flit and flicker as her hands roll amongst them. Light, and soft, the first unfurls of spring are welcoming. Drift, caress, sleep. The leaves roll and grow, curling closer. They spiral arms, hearts, minds.
Wednesday, 1 April 2020
They unknitted from the ground. Unleashed from ivy-vine, hands tore out of the earth and grasped at the cool spring air. Their tips felt the sun, the sun that was rising grey-green amongst weed and flowerbed. The warmth prickled, flesh renewed, the hands started to soften and glow.
Gosh, a bit dark to start out with again, but that's what arrived so there we are!
PS. Thank you, Paula, for reminding me to get writing again!
Tuesday, 30 July 2019
Light comes in the summer with a breath as soft as chalk, bewitching the night into a colourful dance of haze and vapour, sinking a glowing palette into the land. It plays across the rocks and foam, brightening irises and running along the needle tips of beachgrass. We feel our feet cut through the leaves, grit and sand caught between our toes like a harvest of burnt amber. Tawny, gold flecks and then the lavender liquid sea - a coast of colours seep and flash around our eyes. The catch is in - slipping bodies, their fins decked in silver caught from the moon that now sits yellow, yellow and half-remembered in the closing clouds.
Tuesday, 16 July 2019
In from the shadows, from the dying lustre of the trees and the lid of advancing night he came forward from the edge of the wood. Tail embracing the last of the sun's grey glimmer he made his way towards the lantern. The last meeting place, the last warm light that hung on the edge of all things.
Wednesday, 3 July 2019
Along the wall sat scissors, ready for the touch of tailor's fingers. Worn by use, their black handles had softened and folded into different shapes which flew snaking shadows up the wall. In the lantern light they hissed and flickered, their mouths ready to lick and sting.
Wednesday, 1 August 2018
The snowbells ring throughout the endless night. Shaking their stark, blistering white light across the frozen fields, these little bell-flowers help light the way for the night travellers who search out for spring's new song. When the south starts to warm, after the deepest chill of winter, the land exhales a wistful air that sends itself reeling towards any remaining cold and ice, its determination gathering speed as it melts all in its path. The north feels it coming, and the brave flowers that found their way out of the snowbanks reverberate and buzz with pleasure. They call out again and again to the wild, warming winds. Those that travel after them delight to see the snow fracturing on their path. Green fingers rise sharply from the clods to greet them, and they dance together as the world around them brightens.