Into the leafy dark


In the leafy dark of powdered clouds,

beneath the arc of scented sky,

we walk the night paths you and I.

Hand in hand through ankle swathes of mist,

of dry twig-crack and damp grass-swish,

beneath owl-howl and gentle brush of bat,

our footsteps, heartbeats, in-out breath,

count the marching minutes pass.

We count and sigh and try hard to forget,

that this time of parched leaf-rustle,

tranquil hours laced with frog-song,

of perfumes from the deep dark gloom,

these star-prick moments full of savage love,

our yesterdays, tomorrows, all linked arm in arm,

make a chain forged with our birthing breath,

leading from this end of dusky day,

into the long and silent night.

Stringing moments

The dVerse prompt today is prose poetry. It seems as though it’s not too different to prose, so I’m giving it a whirl.


Take time as it comes, tick-tocking in its pre-ordained rhythm, the same for you, the salmon in the river and the robin singing in the tree. Raise your eyes from the clock and watch clouds form and reform and the play of light on dappling water. Count the irises on the bank and the clouds of celandine, watch the ripening of blackberries and the turning of the leaves, day by day.

Make a painting of the minutes, a novel of the hours and spread them about you, a bulwark against the slowing of the blood. Build climbing trellises for roses and string vines between tall trees for shade and fruit. String moments like pale-faced daisies on a chain of green. Shape your space and fill it with beauty.

In time, all things whither and die, so set your seed, build your mountains circled with soaring gulls, and sing the songs that whisper in the wind, strum the strings of winter sedge, and live each moment that the earth gives.


Moons, time and tides

For the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt. The words:



I mark the page and close the book,

No time to finish what I start,

This trial is running to its end,

I smell rot in the rose’s heart.

Time was when sun would fill with gold

The open page, the lawn of green,

But now the moon draws tide and time,

Leaves me left with what might have been.

Bird, find your nest in hedges deep,

Far from marauding feline claws,

Raise your brood and sing your songs,

The one truth in this world of flaws.

Time flies

In response to Chris’s response


So little time we have,

and yet it streams

between the fingers and the toes,

dredged like muddy rivers,

dark and unmarked with any glitter.

Time, a wheel of stars

out of reach,

we watch, open-mouthed,

the slow, majestic roll of the sky,

and when we look down

and fix again upon the ground beneath our feet,

the season’s changed,

and red leaves blow

where green shoots shone.

Time and roses

The Daily Post prompt is: Clock


Spring nights when we’d meet by the lake,

I’d watch for the first stars to wake,

Impatient for vespers to chime,

The clock on the wall marks the time.


You planted a seed that would grow,

As fast as a spring river flow,

Such true love could not be a crime,

The clock on the wall marks the time.


At midsummer you would return,

You told me, but much as I yearn,

The rose trees are furred with cold rime,

The clock on the wall marks the time.


Walking to the brink of time alone

A quatern in response to the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt.

This week’s words are:



Walking to the brink of time alone,

I sense the silence of the cold stars’ wail,

Black winds howl and through pale gullies moan,

Secure that no one hears their lonely tale.


Our handclasp broke, you let me slip away,

Walking to the brink of time alone,

I longed with all my heart to hear you say,

You could not kill the love between us grown.


Setting sun and shooting stars still shone,

Filling earth and sky with fleeting light.

Walking to the brink of time alone,

The edge approaches at the brink of night.


Dying rays and starshine light the way,

I turn, but through the glimmer you have gone.

I call your name, but nothing makes you stay,

Walking to the brink of time alone.

Microfiction: Tick Tock

For Ronovan’s Friday Fiction prompt.

PENTAX Digital Camera

Ticks and tocks of essential time, sink the spirits lower than wine.

 She tore the newspaper page across, crumpled it angrily and threw it in the grate.

Smart arse editorialist.

It was her own fault; she should know by now not to read the obits. As if people needed reminding about the fleeting nature of human existence. Her eyes flicked automatically to the clock on the mantelpiece, an heirloom inherited from parents-in-law, a cheap, mass-produced monstrosity, a wedding present, no doubt, from the sepia days before the first world war. She hated that clock, the infernal, lugubrious tick tock and the chime every quarter. Every quarter! How had they stood it all these years?

She dumped the newspaper and its tidings of doom and gloom and took her coffee into the garden. Maybe she was just tired. She grimaced. Coffee was hitting the stomach rather hard this morning. She poured it over the roses and sat on the bench, watching the clouds race and a robin taking a bath in a rain puddle.

Nothing changed except the pattern of the clouds. He was still gone. Still left, leaving her with the house, the bills and the burden of… everything.

She closed her eyes but the earth carried on turning. Her stomach carried on turning. Tears squeezed out from behind closed lids. It took so little to knock the whole world out of kilter. Everything was wrong. Each second that flicked past was wrong. There were not enough of them left to waste them like this on pain and morbid thoughts, bills and emptiness. She winced. The spasm passed. But it would be back, like clockwork.

Tick tock said the clock. Cloud thickened and covered the morning sun. Coffee dripped from the roses, and the robin finished his bath.