The dark falls quickly

A pantoum for the dverse prompt. This one turned out rather ghostly.


The dark falls quickly at this time of year,

When winter clings beneath the leafless trees,

Where in the twilight flit like ghosts the deer,

And dead leaves rustle in the spring-sharp breeze.


When winter clings beneath the leafless trees,

I listen for the sound of cracking ice

And dead leaves’ rustle. In the spring-sharp breeze

I think I hear a sound, still imprecise—


I listen for the sound of cracking ice.

Though nothing stirs yet in the night-clear air,

I think I hear the sound still imprecise

Of laughter, our voices free of care.


Though nothing stirs yet in the night-clear air,

I feel your presence wrapping me in waves

Of laughter, our voices free of care.

A sea of grief rolls now, and fields of graves


I feel your presence, wrapping me in waves

Of twilight, where like ghosts they flit, the deer,

And grief, a sea rolls over fields of graves.

The dark falls quickly at this time of year.


Microfiction: Remains

This macabre photo is the prompt for the Friday Fictioneers this week. Thanks Rochelle! Word count 100.

There’s a second part here.



The house had been empty for years. We bought it through the lawyer who was disposing of the previous owners’ assets. They had gone, disappeared, leaving everything behind. There was a sadness about the house that I found attractive at first, and waited eagerly for spring when we could start attacking the overgrown garden.

Spring was late and cold. Frost clung to the north side of the house and the ground stayed hard and unyielding. It was there, much later in the year, after rain had softened the earth enough to turn it over, that we dug up the grave.

Fallen leaves make dapples


Fallen leaves make dapples

in the moonlight on the terrace,

and the silence falls as heavy

as a leaden Sunday downpour,

for in the nimble silver

of the moonlight in the garden,

there is sadness where the rose bloomed

and now only hookéd thorns shine,

and the dapples swarm like gravespots,

and the silence cracks in cloudbursts

of lead pearls, cold tears, quicksilvered.

Microfiction challenge #18: Lost

I’ve had this painting on my list for a while, and although cheery it isn’t, there’s a good story behind it (Kat, feel free to ignore this week’s prompt) although I challenge you to write a story that is not the story of a drowned person. For one thing, if you’re drowned, it’s impossible for you to be telling us about what it was like. Think backstory, meanings, motives and reasons. Who are the people on the beach, why are they there, who are they carrying, is it a corpse, a grieving lover?

Please post your stories in the comments box before next Thursday. Despite everything, have fun 🙂



The Daily Post prompt is: plop.


Into the river, raindrops fall,

Down to the sea, the river flows,

Clouds in the sky, the sea dissolves.


Unhappiness is like the rain,

So crystal bright yet full of grief,

Into the river, raindrops fall.


I cannot stop the flood of tears,

Enough to fill a torrent fall,

Down to the sea, the river flows.


You said goodbye, walked down the strand,

A haze of mist obscured your face,

Clouds in the sky, the sea dissolves.



So many more pieces of light,

the night sky blazes, look!

The stars cry blood rubies

and the wastes of space

fill with shattered lives.

Look! Look at the falling rain,

the climbing rose,

the singing bird,

the laughing child,

vessels of life and light and love,

not loved enough.

Not worth the loving,

the black flags mutter.

Look now, how they shine.

Do they? Perhaps for those

like the fox and hare,

who have eyes to see.

Look, with wild eyes,

see how the great net draws them up,

into the vast, tender darkness,

lights strung out across the dome of night,

because there is no place for simple life

on this god-made earth.

Her love left her forsaken

Another atempt at an echo poem



Her love left her forsaken,


Beneath the may tree grieving,


He plucked the feathers from her heart,


So she could not fly away.


He slipped her heart into a box,


And threw away the key.


White gull spied, through green waves falling,


But she lets it lie, the deep sea tending.


Clear-eyed she turns to face the night,


Where moon and starlight fill the place,


The hollow filled with tears now dried,


White feathers and may blossom blow,


The wild west wind has set them free,


No silence

Felix Nussbaum: Orgelmann
Felix Nussbaum: Orgelmann, 1942

No silence is too full of words of sorrow,

No ocean of tears half deep enough,

To drown the shame and the pity,

To wash away the chagrin and the fear,

And leave behind a pile of polished stones instead.

When we walk in darkness,

As we must, when hands cover red-rimmed eyes,

When clouds cover the sun and mask the moon,

Hope in the light,

The beacon that guides,

To the haven in the storm.

Remember, no night is so deep

No dusk such a far-off memory,

No overarching mesh of stars so bright,

That morning will never come.

Black holes


Such a fine line we tread,

Along the golden-lined cloud fringe,

The foam-frilled reach of the tide,

Among the flaming pinpoints of the stars,

Like the finger tracing the softly yielding edge

Of a rose petal.

So easy to tumble into the abyss,

The darkness that lurks behind every smiling moment,

Behind the glittering glory of sunlight and moonlight,

Where the worm curls in the rotten, sunless core.

Did you push or did I just fall,

Drunk with happiness as I paced the dizzy path?

In the numbing, never ending cold,

There is no light to see an outstretched hand,

No sweeping comet’s tail to catch,

To stop the free fall into the dark.