Lace wings it had, the butterfly

Painting ©Anastasiya Markovich


Lace wings it had, the butterfly,

pale and faded now that summer’s gone

and clings the mud of autumn.


Scraps, the colour of pressed flowers,

in the seething autumn earth,

remnants of a summer day.


Did the song end or did I stop listening

when the wind blew from the east?

Robin kept the notes for brighter days.


Lace and the ripple of music

run through the sodden grass,

and will you be there to chase the sun,

to paint the wings of butterflies

with rainbow songs the robin sang

when the dark is past and spring returns?

Pebbles in the stream



The pebble dropped into the stream

may roll down to the ocean vast and blue,

or, like your love, sink forgotten

into weed-choked mud.


Rain on stone,

pattering cold from stony sky,

washes the dust and the clinging grime,

washes clean

for memories to build anew.


No light in this air,

this day of damp and dinge,

cold clings like a second skin,


and relentless as the mud-gorged river.


Once so clear, the future,

decked with diamonds bright as stars,

dense and dull now as the river,

swollen with sorrowing rain

and the debris of broken things.

Sweet summer sound

This is for the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt. The words to use are:


I’ve taken a few liberties with the words, but you get the general idea.


A sweet sound fills the summer air,

I know to ware,

All movement stilled,

With beauty filled.


The trill of birdsong on the breeze,

Drifts through the trees,

So unaware,

Of my sharp stare.


All ears, I listen ’neath the tree.

I cannot see:

Enough to hear,

His song so clear.

Dancing with the stars

A Minute Poem for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt. The words this week are


Photo©Kevin Higgins

Dancing with the stars

I wonder at the oak trees’ dance,

In a wind trance,

Moving in thrall

To its wild call.


I part the grasses of the path,

Over the rath,

Where voices low

Bid me not go.


Paying small heed to common sense,

I climb the fence:

With cold stars roam,

I’ll not go home.

Vine climbs

For the Daily Post prompt: natural


At the foot of the wall,

in the shade of the sill,

where the grey shadows fall,

and the workmen drill,

there’s a small piece of green,

a patch of new shoots,

that nobody’s seen

and torn from its roots.

At the foot of the wall,

In the shade of the sill,

A vine starts to crawl

In a fierce show of will,

through a bed of dog ends

and discarded litter,

green tendrils sends,

with raindrops aglitter.

At the foot of the wall,

in the shade of the sill,

in its own space so small

the vine struggles still.

At the foot of the wall

in the dust of the street,

the earth shows us all,

where life and hope meet.