Poetry

Winter’s call

The cloak flaps about in the wind.¬†Wings of an untamed beast expressing their disconcert – tied to the long neck of a statue, for all it’s worth. Crisp, frozen grass blades crunch at the first steps of the morn. Another day. Another cloak of wings that can’t get away.

Poetry

The Teapot Trial

Lined up on the kitchen worktop

are three teapots.

One red.

One blue.

One yellow.

 

In the red

a flame licks the inside,

burning without wick or fuel.

I hold my hand over the spout

where the heat

warms

my purpling fingers.

 

I move to the blue.

Inside that,

a grey cloud swirls around,

pouring rain from the spout.

I gather it up,

wetting my peeling lips.

 

I look to the yellow.

I know what’s inside without touching.

A single seed, freshly sprouted,

waits for me.

I mustn’t touch.

I must touch.

 

If I give in,

I’ll live again.

 

But living

means emotions,

hurts and loves that I can’t control.

 

I’m not ready.

Not yet.