the world crisped new
not a banknote
a white page
and in the frost
blackbirds writing a new story
in bird runes.


Morning and figs


Morning mist lifts
slow and damp
and gold fills the fields
always gold even at noon
now strewn with orange leaves
and the soft brown wings of songbirds.

Morning lifts.
I climb the hill
between fluttering leaves
fluttering wings
and the glorious rich smell
of sun-drying figs.

Morning melts
into midday
into noon
then dusk and night
carried in the dance of leaf and bird
and the smell of ripe figs.

Not quite limbo


A day in limbo opens,

final words written,

and the deflation of completion sets like cement,

feet flat on the ground with

clouds and rainbows dissipated

in the striking of the final full stop.


And yet and yet,

on opening the door

to sample the morning

of an in-between time,

by the well, the sign sits,

a young hare.


I watch, dog watches,

we watch all three,

and between the twitch of its long ears,

the day of blackbirds, blue sky

and a garden of roses begins,

limbo vanishes like dew in the sun.


Magic races around the house

in the long morning shadows,

and whatever comes in the heel-kicking

white scut-bouncing

wake of the sign

will have a hare in it.

Poetry challenge #17: Shadorma

The last shadorma challenge seemed to please a lot of you, so I thought we’d do it again. This time there’s a theme. It’s trees, and there’s an atmospheric picture to inspire you. To refresh the memory, a shadorma is a six line stanza (or a whole string of them if you feel like it) in a syllable pattern of

You have one week. Write lots. I love to read them 🙂

Photo ©Naturnet


Trees I see,

In a mist faintly,

Wise oaks stand,


Songs and tales from the deep earth,

Dark words of comfort.