Poetry

And now, the weather

At night came the time for rain,

for rain to trickle through my brain.

All day the sun had roasted it dry;

I’d stared absently into the sky

trying to chase down my thoughts

that flitted around, avoiding getting caught.

But now their wings are wet,

and in the direction of my head they set

just as I snuggle down to sleep,

causing my imagination to take a giant leap.

Poetry

A Day with Rain

The earth drinks.

Gulping down the sweat of clouds

like a thirsty doe whose energy

has all but been spent rearing her fawns.

 

Gullies are overrun by rivers;

old newspapers float by,

tiny boats setting sail for new land.

 

Giant mushrooms are held by the statues waiting

for the bus to stop by.

shielding the stone faces from incessant drops.

 

 

Poetry

British Summertime

Dawn approaches and my ears are filled with wailing,

the shrill cry of a cat

defending its territory.

 

A crow laughs outside the window.

 

In my dream state

I wonder if it’s going to fly in and pay us a visit,

pondering why,

in this heat,

we’re fighting to find cover

that we don’t really want.

 

Perhaps it will repeat the phrases we spent so many weeks uttering

in winter:

why does it have to be so cold?

if only it was summer!

I’ll be happy once it gets warm again.

 

And then gather it’s buddies

in a chorus of cawing,

just to make sure we’re not tempted to try and sleep

when the sun rises and sucks the air from our lungs.

Poetry

H.U.Gs

We sell heaters for 99p. They’ll not oil filled, or gas fueled; not even blower heaters. They’re fleshy and warm: heart utilization generators. H.U.Gs for short. Most people walk straight past them, not trusting them to be efficient enough for their needs. So they sit there on the shelf, year in, year out, gathering dust. I thought I’d tidy them up today, display them a bit better. I sold two in twenty minutes. The buyers were the happiest customers I’ve ever seen.

Extracts/ Flash Fiction, Poetry

Extract from my current WIP

I don’t usually write poems or songs in my books, but this time the story called for one. And as this blog features quite a lot of my poetry, I thought I’d share it. To put it in context, it gives a vial clue for my characters to find something:

‘And when the snows begin to ease

On mountains high, with cool breeze

Look out to the peaks every morn

From which the ice sparrows are drawn

And watch them duck and dive

Until upon the floating cities they arrive,

Stealing crystals for their nests,

Those naughty sparrows, dragon’s pests.

Poetry

Rain

We can walk together along the path

of browns and golds, an orange here and there,

we can chat about how things are –

home, jobs, family, hobbies –

we can look up at the darkening sky,

glee in our eyes,

and stick out our tongues

ready to catch those first drops

weeping down from the clouds.

 

Or we could laugh at the time you fell

in that shallow puddle,

which actually turned out to be quite deep.

Poetry

Water vapour, as I see it

The mist drifts in

across the moor.

A natural occurrence,

yet to those there to witness,

its creeping hands form

a heavy stone, which

though small, gives

a sudden punch

to the chest.

Tales long thought to be forgotten

come unbidden

to the mind,

whispers

of eyes and teeth

and a cold breath upon the neck.

But they are only whispers.

Told to steal the knotted wrap

from your warm,

foetal body.