Spider Nut – Poetry

Licorice legs
and a walnut shell.
You could be a crab,
tired of the grainy shore,
the glucose whirl of a gluey sea.

Unicorn shaped cloud.

Fantasy’s Stamp – Poetry

Fantasy’s stamp is upon this sky
From the cloud dust remains
of a quartet of ghosts, they grow,
gather pace on the carousel,

Mumbles Pier and Boat

Back Home – Poetry

Back Home Mumbles greets, with pop-to-shop chatter, the ping of welcome, the smell of new, Welsh crafted gifts and the slow-down of …

Holding Hands

Sculpting – Poetry

My hands are imagining you,
the cool pale, your shoulders,
like hawk wing, I sculpt,

Petals – Micropoetry

When you wake with petals
strewn at your inner imaginings,
you try to live up to the sweet start,

Communication

Micropoetry: Language

It’s a mystery, how the mind leaps
from primitive sound
to intricate, webbed sentence,

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,

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.

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.