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.'
TreeI take down the tree, unwreathe its arms of tinsel and bauble. Now it is pure and green and dark, a figure without cover.
The ShoreA shot of sea spills its gut, deep music.
As a starfish, I am pointy, shiny and spirited, with a zest for water. The tank allows me to see out into the world without taking part. I can float and watch and wait. The only problem occurs when a handler introduces me to a child.
I find the river. I feel the walk beneath my soles. The sky holds a spreading heat and I follow the light into the water, where it dapples, moves through green weed and over stones. A fish startles to life and I see him flick through the depths.
Waterford Writers' Weekend is fast approaching and I will be leading a workshop called 'Get Flashy with Fiction' on Saturday, May 9th. The workshop will run from 10.30 am until 12.30 pm at Central Library, Waterford.
The pale yellow, shell-like construction of a daffodil . . . My niece presents me with the flower, along with a handful of catkins. The catkins draw my senses with their animal texture and my heart twists. This pure gesture stands out as my world continues to revolve with change. I take a sheet of blank paper, arrange the flowers, like a sketch. Every element has a shadow. I note the light and the darkness, capture them with my camera.
The Wind that Shook the Daffodils: A Memory Story by K. S. Moore The St David's Day concert was one of the highlights of the Primary...
She likes to sit right among the roses. She doesn't mind the thorns, doesn't fear them. They are only part of a rose, just as human prickles and niggles are part of their skin. Naturally, the petals draw her eye and her favour, like soft tissue, wrapped around a gift. The shade of pink is so light, she imagines its glide against her cheek, while the yellow is defiantly spring-like, late into the season.