A wishing sky

The sky at sunset was incredible. This is just the bit where the sun went down (no filters) but the entire horizon was pink and flame. No idea why it does that sometimes.

The day is slipping between oven platters
the smells of baking ginger rosemary lemon
pine boughs

new-woven wreaths of holly ivy
mark the barn door
in the owl dark now

and beyond the windows
the sky is on fire. Ablaze
swallowing starlight.



Rain is falling,

stalling the year,

drear as an ending,

sending waves to break on muddy banks.

Thanks given for what?

Not good fortune or happiness.

Loneliness is the lot of many,

any port in a storm, they take,

make their own joy.

Cloying, the unctuous sweetness of the season,

reason departs and folly reigns,

staining the simple spread of pleasures shared,

snared, the quiet soul of peace,

fleeced, the unwary and naïve.

Eve of childhood’s magic feast,

released the genie from the bottle,

throttled the hen that laid the golden eggs,

begs the question, why all this pain?

Rain is falling.

Microfiction Three Line Tales: Shades of Banquo

For Sonya’s Three Line Tales. Miserable, I know. Sorry about that.

Photo©Jennifer Pallian via Unsplash


Christmas Eve and the house is full of light spilling out onto the street, so inviting, even to someone who left slamming the door two months before.

I didn’t phone ahead, Christmas Eve, of course I’d be home, there was no need; I have a key, I can let myself in.

They are there, parents, sister, brother, finishing decorating the tree, having the first glass of wine, and on the table, the traditional stolen that we have every year when the tree is decorated is waiting, already cut—only four slices.