The promised sun is swept away

and hid beneath the carpet

thick and dank

of cloud.

North wind wails

and gibbers tales

of wolves and whales

where ice floes ply

to and fro.

Magpies strut in penguin suits

through grass that ripples

cold as the sea,

slick and shiny

like new toys

switched on

for some monstrous

Christmas morning

to show the world

that jubilation

is in a scratched worm.


Before green leaves

A poem for this day of Imbolc which is mild and bright, the sun is warm, and the birds are singing spring songs. I’m using this painting of Diana again because it’s such a joyful one.



Before green leaves, sweet birdsong

clothes the trees in beauty,

and through the rain, the air, pearl-bright,

is blue as mists upon the ocean.

Tread with fiery feet

to warm the cockles of the earth,

and hatch the seeded fruits of autumn.

Keep your keening for the year that’s dead,

the crone laid down beneath the winter snows,

and we will sing the green and sun-dyed hopes

in the young year to come.

May 8 1945


On this day, the bells rang out,

The crowds cheered, and joy flowed in rivers,

But creeping inexorably into the light,

Its pale, white underbelly revealed,

Nameless and blind, the foul creature we had woken.

No bright lights, no embrace however tight,

No indiscriminate kissing of strangers,

Will ever dispel

That bloated face hiding in the shadows.

Out of the depths, did it croak,

The beast that cannot crawl back,

For we have plumbed the depths

And lit beneath arc lights its depravity.

When the wild, delirious laughter fades,

The only sound I hear

Is the mourners’ song for the dead.

Three line tales: New Year’s Honours

A new photo prompt for a story in three lines. For the rules, to join in, or just to read the other stories, please visit Sonya’s blog.


So pretty, she thought, the way they flutter in the breeze like bird of paradise wings.

She clapped her hands and silence fell. “The honours this year go to…Orange!”

The crowd erupted, a volcanic surge of cheering and roaring as the Orange colours were torn down and thrown on the sacrificial pyre, then screaming as the Orange supporters were tossed after them.


A new year


Day dawns

Crisp crackly cold.

Birds wait with ruffled feathers

For the tepid sun to rise.

Another day,


On the bare rose tree

Last blooms cling,

Brown and mummified.

Spring waits.

No new year on a sudden,

Imperceptible changes creep

With the stately majesty of the wheeling stars.

Deep in the earth where worms snout,

And warm-blooded creatures curl,

Hair trembles with electric frost,

Sensory captors waiting, poised,

For the first stirrings.

None of our proclamations

And frenzied, cork-popping, tinsel-laden


Hurry the smallest seed

One second closer

To its green destiny.