A bright maple leaf makes a startling autumn sight.

Flash Fiction: Maple Leaf

The maple leaf stops them. Its veiny palm invites examination, as peach and pale green cross shades. Autumn does this to maple leaves; scorns their attempts to cling onto their tree of birth, strikes them down, flattens their flame. And then, somebody finds the leaf, finds charm in its crown-like edges, its slight resemblance to thorns.

Heron.

Poetry – Heron

A solitary heron,
silver-grey, his stature great,
resides within the river village,
old man hunched and scouring.

Pebbles.

Poetry – Pebbles

Tricoloured pebbles,
the sand stepping-stones
of a shuffling huddle,
or shifting land –
a clinking crowd at ground.

Mermaid

Flash Fiction: Soap-White

She assumes her position at the sink, everything greasy from the day’s befores. She scrubs at silver insides; the eternal circle from clean to unclean. The water pounds in and she thinks of the river; a rat’s tail – just the tail, moving through rushes.

Ahenny Slate Quarries

Poetry – To Ahenny

To Ahenny
where slate spills from the land
like prehistoric teeth.

I bite back, snap
with my new camera,
angled for scenic views,
fail to capture
that dead outreach,

Summer's Day at Bonmahon Beach.

Waves, Change and Memories

Jumping waves and paddling have to be two of the most liberating activities it is possible to undertake. I was reminded of this truth when my husband and I brought our daughter to the beach in Bonmahon, recently. At 18 months, she was able to begin savouring the experience of sand and sea. Taking a few jaunty steps, she seemed to enjoy the softness under her toes. She has a bit of an obsession with water, so standing at the edge of the sea, waiting for it to rush in and soak her feet, also proved to be very popular. It was heartwarming just to be there, holding her hand, watching her pad along in her characterful walking style. There is something very calming about the way the sea moves with wavy, surf-edged gestures. I think she felt that too.

Flash Fiction: The Crowd

The crowd surge forward. They all wear blue. Despite the uniformity, I pick out faces. Each expression is unique. I focus on a young man – his brown eyes are round and expectant. His childish complexion gives him a glow. I don’t want to see him dashed.

The Poetry of Wildflowers

Dead Nettle,
the words have
a rattle. Death
should not belong
to soft lilac, or even
the green, wing-like
leaves that dress you,
coquettish weed.

Island of trees against background of mountains in Connemara.

The Magic of County Galway

All around, the coral mountains, crumbling stone walls, lakes – a shade that borrows from sea, that could belong to somebody’s eyes . . . These were my impressions of County Galway, as we journeyed towards Clifden, a town known for its extraordinary position, nestled between the foothills of the Twelve Bens and the magnificent Atlantic Ocean. The day was sleepy with heat, an atmosphere reflected in this island, furnished with sloping trees.

Razor Clam Shell at Ardmore.

The Adventure Years

When the sand draws you down to its grainy heart, you have to keep control of your feet, lift them, before they sink completely. This, I found out while walking on the beach at Ardmore with my husband and baby daughter. I was posing for a lighthearted picture and somehow my daughter’s buggy stayed firm, while the sand crept up over my ballet pumps.

A Phase of Wonder

I was trying to think of subject matter for this blog post and decided I would write about my beautiful daughter. She has become so interactive and I’m constantly surprised by things she says and does.

At just 15 months old, she has picked up a couple of phrases: ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘Why is that?’ She also uses a range of single words such as ‘Hi’, ‘Bye’, ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. ‘Duck’ and ‘Bath’ have also recently joined her repertoire. She loves shouting ‘Bye, Dad!’ to my husband, any time he walks out of a door ahead of us and likes to greet and say her farewells to shoppers and shopkeepers alike.

Flash Fiction: Cigarette

The smoke is oppressive, dangerous. Cassandra watches it curl around the armchair and already she can imagine its source – a long cigarette, dangling from the pursed lips of a grey-faced man. Every wrinkle is part of a complex pattern. She has traced paths through that face, has seen it close to her own, close enough to the feel the cool flame of his breath.

Organising Clutter.

New Year, New Poems

I’ve been working on some poetry, lately. I know this isn’t a startling revelation, but I’m quite pleased with how these particular poems are shaping up. One was inspired by the memory of my first scan in pregnancy. I was struck by the sonographer’s words ‘everything you see on the screen is bone . . .’ and this led me to my opening line: ‘When they tell you, your baby is bone.’

Poetry – I Take down the Tree

Tree

I take down the tree,
unwreathe its arms
of tinsel and bauble.
Now it is pure
and green and dark,
a figure without cover.

The Big House Move

I apologise for the recent lack of Blog Posts. If you follow me on Twitter (@KarenSDavies), you will know that I have …

I'm looking forward to Autumn in full flame.

Autumn – a Thrilling Change

A thrilling change is coming over my garden. It’s called Autumn. The first orange leaf has fluttered from tree – emphasised by the brooding staying power of a neighbouring cedar. Green is still the dominant colour, but individual leaf-blazes shout from the middle of branches.