#writephoto: Box

I’ve maybe taken liberties with the picture, but we all see in different ways, and that’s the point of the exercise, isn’t it?

For Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt.



A concrete box on a rock, that’s all that’s left and the tide that goes neither up nor down because there’s no moon and no currents and no reason any more. The concrete box doesn’t complain at the lack of company or purpose. It exists, and when, perhaps a thousand years hence, its structure finally fissures and it crumbles into the unmoving water, there will be nothing at all, only water and darkness and silence.


Three Line Tales: Fiery feathers

For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Tobias Keller via Unsplash


They were straight-talking, honest-to-goodness, salt of the earth men, and they didn’t believe in that kind of fairy tale hokum, so when the firebird rose above the trees in a torrent of flame, the drovers just clicked their teeth and chivvied the steers on their way.

Which was unfortunate, because the drifting fiery feathers that the drovers refused to see, were spied by a child, a solitary, unloved child, who recognized their magic power and knew exactly what he could do with one of them.

Unfortunate because the child would grow to go down in history as the man who brought the world to the brink of extinction, and these words that I write, on the brink, are perhaps that history’s closing lines.

A Month with Yeats: Day Twenty-Three

Today’s quote is from ‘He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead’.

‘…your hair was bound and wound

About the stars and moon and sun:’—W.B. Yeats


Growing Old


No matter how old we grow, how deep the furrows

Carved in the delicate lines of once-soft skin,

How thin the hair and threaded through with age,

Hoar-frosted strands and the dull ache of joints,

No matter how many miles between your fingers’ touch

And the whispered breath that lifts the hair above my ear,

You are here, bound to me with the strings of my heart,

With the gold and the bright, laughing green shoots of spring.

Could this be?

Rapid fire posting here while I have an internet connection. For the dverse prompt.


Could this ever have been me,

the crouching, curled about myself, in the never-quite-warm?

Did I ever sniff night air and curl deeper into the ground,

the cave, the nest, the hollow tree, finding comfort in the insect-busy earth?

Beyond, in the twitching, shifting half-light, half-shadow, is life,

for those who never shake the touch of death from fur or feather.

What do I ever feel but faded, sifted echoes of the life the sun gives?

I tread and and I tramp with shop-bought boots, the frosty grass.

And though I peer into the branches overhead,

where the watchful hawk sits and the mist hangs in tatters,

no cries fall that I can hear,

no lesson learned from the leafless limbs.

A Month with Yeats : Day Twenty-Two

Internet has flickered on so here is today’s quote from ‘He Hears the Cry of the Sedge’.


‘I wander by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:’ —W.B. Yeats


By the shallow waters of the lake


There is more beauty in this empty land,

Than in the city full of garish light,

And the noise of lives lived with ferocious joy,

The eternal hum and drone of never night.

I wade the shallow waters of the lake,

Hear ancient voices sigh in wind-bent sedge,

Where birds whose hearts are older far than we,

Fear not to balance on the world’s dim edge,

Where blue and gold lights, dawn and evening blend,

Where sorrow fades and all things have an end.