Fires will blaze

Today and tomorrow, we celebrate Imbolc, Brigid’s fire festival, midway between the winter and spring solstices, when the ewes start to give milk, the first spring flowers appear, and the end of the winter is in sight. This small poem is inspired by Paul Militaru’s splendid photographs that you can see here. There may well be more.


Fires will blaze,

feet tread in the darkness,

soft and silent,

while faces of the wild,

peer, watching,

waiting for the spring.

Flames lick the dead wood,

burn up the old,

light the new,

and in the ashes,

grass shoots.


A window on the world

A quadrille for the dverse prompt. This is our bedroom window, no electricity, but the daylight’s enough for summer mornings.

Letting in the morning

Early morning,

first summer morning,

light falls on a field full of birds.

The memory of the city still echoes

with its traffic whoosh and broken voices,

but here, in cock-crowing sunrise,

this window opens, lizard-lazy,

onto the dewy peace

of a new world.




so bright

I hide my eyes,

but still the hand of heat lies heavy on my head.

Throbbing darkly like the sun,

shadows bob in and out of sight.

Flowers, an unexpected joy,

frazzle in their coloured crowns and gowns,

thirsty even after storm rain torrents.

Walking these hard pavements

is like walking the floor of Hell,

and the brazen coping of its roof

is falling in molten drops

on this dry, whispering world.

Heat noise

Photo ©AS990


Heat crackles with the cackling of laughter,

shatters in brittle fragments

with the sparkle of broken glass,

glints like restless water,

and my head throbs with the whiteness of it.

Why so much laughter

and red shafts of anger

when all else is quiet?

Too hot for birdsong,

when the dust rises and drifts

on the wind of traffic noise.

Evening comes in a hot belch of exhaust

and the stink of other people’s cooking.

No peace falls as the tempo increases,

and the staccato whine of the world

is a sea of needle teeth to smother in.

Light-flicker, mirror-shine

Poem written as a migraine starts to take hold.


Light flickers through windy leaves,

Heavy with the weight of gold and silver,

Glitter where the river streams,

Turbulent its course, ending never.

Spring briskness twists the new green,

Shooting through hard winter crust,

Deep earth and water shed their icy sheen,

Shifts the season, bellows with every thrust.

Mirror-shine too bright to look upon,

Water rolls too loud to hearken on,

Even the fussing blackbird’s still,

Frozen in the golden, silver chill.


The last dverse prompt I used was to create a poem using the same techniques as the Impressionist painters. I had another think about the idea and wrote this.


Light is all,

light and its shadow,

sun and moon and the good green earth.

This gesture, that posture,


her hand, his mouth, a blowing poppy,

languid or lascivious,

through a prism of rainbows.

Paint the words in the scent of roses,

and breathe it in the waters of reflected stars.

Touch me with the pastel shades of morning,

bathe me in the fiery clouds of dusk.


Microfiction #writephoto: Light

For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt. A 99 word flash.


Light streamed through the tree tunnel behind her. She peered nervously into the rear view mirror as the intensity increased and pressed down on the accelerator. The little car raced along the sinuous road, empty beneath the sinister red glow. Where were they all? Anxiety turned to fear that turned to panic when, at the crest of the next hill, she raised her eyes and blinked them sharply closed again—the mirror was a blinding sheet of brilliance, behind, nothing but light. She slammed her foot down with a sob; she already knew she could never outrun it.

Silence slumbers

The Daily Post prompt is: silence. Appropriate for a migrainy day.


Silence slumbers on the far reaches,

Sand slips between clawing fingers,

And the pounding roar of the surf

Fills every hollow inside the skull.

Where does the darkness hide

When the night is full of light?

And the streetlights throb like open wounds,

Their gaudy lament jingle-jangling

On the hard glitter of the streets?

Silent sleep evades, furtive as cat shadows,

And the clanging of the night train,

Rollocking through the last tunnel,

Draws nearer and louder,

But though I wait with anguished withheld breath,

It never arrives.