#Three Line Tales: Space junk

This is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.


This was the kind of photo shoot the public loved, and Scott knew he owed it to them—they were paying billions for this program that allowed him to walk in space.

He pulled himself through the immensity, feeling the eyes of stars as well as millions of earthlings following his beetling movements, to where the foreign bodies were caught up in the heat shields.

The anxiety that had grown to blind terror abated, and in a fury of irritated relief, he cut away the damn bicycle panniers and let them drift away into space.


Haibun erased

This is perhaps what the NaPoWriMo prompt intended. In my haibun I have put the words I kept in bold italics.

Woken at four in the morning by a mad thrush singing its heart out, I watch the stars and the place where the tiny nail-clipping of a moon had been. By starlight, the field is lead-coloured, not silver, except where the thistledown dandelion heads show above the long grasses, the vetch and the flax. Bird sings alone except for the chortling of toads by the pond and the backing chorus of frogs. Why, in this darkness, when fox and stoat and weasel prowl, when owls hunt through the branches? Is it really an instinctive urge, this drama in the night, or is it uncontainable joy in the spring that has suddenly blossomed into summer?

Spring night

warm as ditch water

sings of birth.



Out, the stars,

nail-clipping moon,

silver above the long grasses.

Bird sings

of fox prowl, owl hunt—

night joy suddenly blossomed

into spring birth.




Does anyone remember the Korgis ‘Everybody’s gotta learn sometime’? They played this cover version on the radio this evening and I thought I must be being haunted by Sesame Street.

I actually prefer this version. Pure fun. Mekanik Kantatik. I’ll be listening to more of them.

Tanka Tuesday: Gather & Soft

This tanka is for Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday prompt. It is for our youngest who has just gone back to Bordeaux after spending the first week of the holidays here. It has flown by!


Sweep up in armfuls

the meadow flowers, damp

with dewy sunlight.

Take their tender heartbeat

with you, city-distant.

The silence in the woods

I have always hated handicrafts, anything that involves cutting and sewing, weaving, pasting or pinning. So my eyes glazed over before I even got to the end of the instructions for today’s NaPoWriMo prompt. However, much simpler, is to find inspiration in a line from someone else’s poem. I often pinch favourite lines and let the words work their magic. In this villanelle I’ve taken the last two lines from a favourite poem of mine, The Listeners by Walter de la Mare:

“And how the silence surged softly backward

When the plunging hoofs were gone.”


There was silence in the woods beneath the trees

Where the ferny grasses bent beneath my tread;

No birds sang in my presence, ill at ease.


I listened for the voices in the breeze,

To tell me I had misheard what you said—

There was silence in the woods beneath the trees.


I saw no movement, feathered flight that flees,

In the blue arched high above my head;

No birds sang in my presence, ill at ease.


I stopped, breath held, drank silence to the lees,

Hoping in these dreams about me spread;

There was silence in the woods beneath the trees.


Beyond the quiet, sounds of life, a tease,

Even stream-murmur filled me with dread,

No birds sang in my presence, ill at ease.


You will not come, I know I was misled,

You kept my dreams, my heart’s blood all is bled,

Only silence laughs here, dark the trees,

No song will this deep sorrow ever ease.