Poetry

Witch hat?

Out of the ground it springs,

plump, spongy flesh with a wide brim

and pointed tip.

Or should I take the one over yonder, floating on the night black road

beaming silver and tangerine?

Perhaps the shining brass one, left behind by the marching band

complete with player’s spittle.

The daffodil’s trumpet, or the acorn’s cup,

the nightcap of the old magician.

No, no, no!

None of these are suitable for my hat.

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Poetry

All potted up

I have a little seedling,

it’s just sprouted green leaves,

it waves about in the wind

and makes our cat sneeze.

 

I want to give it a home,

so I’ve found a neat brown pot

and filled it with earth

all the way to the top.

 

I’ll make a small hole

using an old lollipop stick

and put my seedling in it

so the stem grows nice and thick.

 

Then for the important bit,

I’ll need to give it a drink.

I heard rainwater’s best,

not just water from the sink.

 

After that, I’ll have to wait

and care for it with love,

only then will it flower

from its tender buds.

 

 

Poetry

Sunny Smiles

Buttermilk-stained plates

poke up from the fray

of earthy closeness.

They greet the day,

even if you don’t want to,

and when you do, they’ll be waiting

to gift you with smiles.

 

When the colour fades as the skies turn,

and the flesh huddles down

to protect itself from the oncoming

chill kisses,

you know that their solid will

is a promise

of their return.