Behind the noise, the whispers

This is a Florette (a real one) for Saint Patrick’s Day.

Photo©Linda Bailey The sheep is hogging the limelight—the standing stone is in the background.

The green will fly and march today,

The beer will flow, the bands will play

Immortal folk reduced to sham

Travestied imps on Instagram, the modern way.


Once upon these rolling hills, sheep

Pastured, and where rivers run deep

A people lived ruled by the sun.

It seems as though those days are done; fairy folk sleep.


But seek them in the passage graves,

Among the stones and sea-licked caves,

Where whispered stories in the breeze

Drift from the rath into the trees, across the waves.


This poem is for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt, using the words:


The more I use the Florette form, the more I like it.


I understood your angry stare,

Your words a weapon, brandished where

Our love alone spoke, soft and low,

And in our arms we’d make dreams grow, not this warfare.


If you could ravel up your rage,

Put by the past and turn the page,

I’d gladly help you write a new

And better story for we two—this world our stage.

Not a Florette: Night hunter

Putting the record straight. It seems I have been labouring under a misapprehension, otherwise known as a wrongly titled entry in Shadow Poetry. I got the form from this entry which is entitled Florette. It isn’t; it’s an Essence. Those nifty little two-liners are in fact called Essence poems. Now we know, I’ll stop calling them Florettes.

This is a Florette.

(I’m rather proud of producing this one off the cuff, so I’m posting it in the dverse open link night.)


Night hunter


Quiet, the day grows, gold the light,

That softens into blue of night

And daytime world sleeps. Wakes the fox,

A silent thief, despite your locks, however tight.


Beneath the stars the night grows old,

He slinks to earth where hunger cold

And fierce is driven from the nest—

A feathered gift—and now to rest; this story’s told.