Poetry

Crude

Pine fresh, they say
stepping from the dark pool
that was flora, that was fauna,

that was lost, that was found
and now is used. Its lifeblood spilt.
Split into molecules, measured for worth, for potential
for making cloaks of green paper
with no chance to rest.

The ghosts of it chant as they chug from engines
itching to join the mists and rain back into the soil that was home.

Some do, only to find they have become poison and turn the earth black.

Poetry

An evening stroll

We have our cast of characters now; moorhens, geese, gatekeepers, holly blues. There, a twitch of whisker, a puff of white cotton-tail. The wind bending the rushes with a twist of its little finger. Can you feel the scene being set? The water ripples as a pair of ducks land. A mouse runs across my boot and moths fly up as I shake their precious hiding places with my clumsy tread. Light gleams over, giving my hair fire. My cheeks are pinched red as evening sets in.

Poetry

Playing cards

I search through the deck of cards, upsetting the neatness of the stack. It doesn’t matter, I can tidy them later; line them up and place them all in order, making sure everything is correct, that the story still flows.

Out of line is the only way I can see the stats clearly, see my qualities measured against each other.

Can I really call them qualities?

I don’t know, but at least I have proof that they exist. That I exist. Until my small house of cards tumbles to the floor.