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,


She leans out to the starry night

Yesterday evening, Harriet Goodchild initiated a twitter duel, drawing on some of the beautiful imagery she uses in her novels. This is my bit, tidied up and with the blanks filled in.



He stands before the casement tightly closed.

“Open to me, love, for the night is bright.”

She sees him framed in moonlight, hollow-eyed,

And bars the door against the fearful night.


She shivers in the chilly wind that blows,

From the deeps beyond the evening star,

She hears him call her out to join the dance,

“Open, love,” he says, “for I have come so far.”


“You bring a breath of winter, love,” she says,

“Hoar frost glitters in your tangled hair,

The night stars all are frozen in the sky,

Though sweet summer’s breath was in the evening air.”


He waves his hand and starlight fills the dark,

Burning bright with passion where he stands.

“Look again, deny it if you can,

The yearning in your heart to take my hands.”


She hesitates and looks around her room,

At the homely fire burning in the grate,

And sees her life among the dancing flames,

Consumed in ash where love has come too late.


She listens to the stirring of her blood,

Looks out upon the deep and starry night.

She sees the wild abandon in the sky,

And takes love’s hands to join its savage flight.

A taste of summer

Sometimes it takes very little to change mood, outlook, morale. Sometimes just a few degrees of temperature will do it. Today was not just warm as a summer’s day, there was a sense of release, as if at last there was no more fear of getting cold, getting wet, or having the umbrella destroyed in a gale.

I don’t know whether it goes back to an ancestral fear of the ‘dark’ season, when nothing grows, when animals die of cold and hunger, and babies and old people give up the struggle to keep alive that keeps us tense and irritable as long as the bad weather lasts. The spring, the change in the air, the birdsong is a sign that the winter is coming to an end, though the season is fickle, and hail and snow showers can bring down the early buds, and nobody risks going out without a coat.

But, all of a sudden, there is a stillness in the morning air, a warmth that grows until it is too hot to sit in the sun. Suddenly the breeze is warm and full of the scent of flowers. Then we let out a long sigh of relief. We throw caution to the winds, and the windows open to the soft breeze. We set the table outside, and sit long into the evening with a glass of wine or cup of coffee listening to the birds.
The streets, the parks and the promenades fill with people simply marvelling at the blue sky and the green that is covering the dry winter twigs. The scent of cut grass and wisteria fill the air, and the chore of watering the garden plants begins. A taste of summer.
Today was like that.PENTAX Digital Camera