Thursday, 12 May 2016

The Books Had Always Sat There...


The books had always sat there. Their spines, once twisted to and fro, had now been claimed by age. Tired, they had been left to fray and fade and fall silent on the shelf. The last bloom of these books was in the curling, painted leaves on their covers - they seemed to battle on like all unlucky, growing things - desperately thrusting their tiny, coloured leaves towards the light. She gazed at them. Those poor tomes, forced into unnatural sleep. No pages allowed to turn, no words allowed to escape and whirl around a new mind, scattering their seeds of delight and wonder. She gazed at them, willing them to wake at once and furiously fan their pages, unleashing their cascade of knowledge into her soul. But they remained, silent, slumbering, hidden within themselves, and she daren't wake them.

Friday, 11 December 2015

Upon Arrival They Were Given...


Upon arrival they were given tiny, lockable treasure boxes that were small enough to hold in one hand. Within a few weeks all the girls managed to amass a small collection of similar possessions: carelessly half-stitched embroideries, buttons they'd rather forget about, the unused thimble, dead blooms and paper clippings for shows never attended. It was usually mid-year when one of them, possessed with a desire for simplicity, and mild alarm at the amassing objects that anchored her to the dark dormitory, would upend her wooden heart-box and madly cast the pieces, fistful at a time, out into the spring-like night.

Thursday, 19 November 2015

I Walk Down By The Field...


I walk down by the field. It's edged in summer's stalks that are now bereft of leaves, Brittle and brown, their lonely, tiny bodies send splintered fingers reaching toward the roll of clouds. They have been hollowed by autumn's winds, and under my own worn fingers they break with the tiniest of touches. There are birds still left in this place. Dancing amongst the remains, they leave no broken trace, as they pluck red jewels that are set in drifts amongst the hedgerow. Now they dance near me, red breasts and berries gleeful against a white sky, singing their love into the silence.



Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Flowers Fade...


Flowers fade. They tinge, and the taint seeps into their hearts. The last blooming beat of daisy, periwinkle or rose creates a potent perfume, which fills the air with a scented song of longing, of forgetting. They are retreating into the dark, and their unfledged buds are bowed before their time.



Thursday, 2 July 2015

The Moth Of Gold...



The moth of gold would only light upon one soul during its sweet life of grey, misty nights. It lived along the rails, steam and smoke percolated the days and the greyness would never end. Then one day the moth chanced upon a platform, high lamps glowed above and the moth's heart burst with desire to shine as bright. The wish burned so fully that slowly a gold light began to flicker in his breast. As he danced along lonely streak of stone, he came across a child, whose face glimmered in the lamplight. He saw in the child's eyes a peculiar, curious glitter and he loved it, and wanted to know it so completely he became enflamed with his own golden desire and he shone, like the purest drop of sunlight, hanging in the sky. The child reached out, fingertips delighting with the molten wings, and they sang to each other, as the grey turned to charcoal night.




Wednesday, 1 April 2015

They Always Cherished...


They always cherished the time they spent there, under the tumbling vines and between the walls that opened to the summer sky. Soon, all the bright blooms that had scattered themselves around the broken walls began to fade, and wither back within the cracks and crevices of stone. All that remained were the roses, their heads hung limp as their beauty dimmed with the harsh winter winds, but their attachment to their thorny home held them fast, and so it was these last flowers that were the first to be plucked when the lovers returned.

Sunday, 29 March 2015

The Snow Fell In Great, Shaking Drifts...


The snow fell in great, shaking drifts. Every bare branch and seam of broken bark was waylaid with a caking of frozen snow. All held still in the snowlight, the world whitened and fell into a new kind of silence. Every creature stayed home, curled into nest and burrow, awaiting the glow of the spring sun.