archaeology

One day, digging up the forest floor, They will stumble upon something white. Something hard to identify, even to tell apart From the peat moss and mycelium, something Brittle and crumbling, even delicate To the exploring fingers. It will stain whatever it touches, So they will not forget The strange encounter. Today, though, it is […]

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Green ink

You know what they say about those who use green ink? Should I say – yes- she thought, all the words emerald. I’d have to research that, she nodded, words verdant and flourishing, sprouting a maze in her head. Green. The colour of death — Of the plants foraging for corpses with their toesies. The […]

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dry spell

Sometimes we snap. Like dry branches, like frost, And bury the others with us. Chips from a lightning-struck oak, Splinters of pine, unruly cones All in a heap, rushed To a conflagration. Sometimes the ragged Edges know only to tear, And heal all crooked. Flames lick at the dark Fluid inkiness Stabbed with stars And […]

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headlights

the red blotch on the asphalt was not. could not be. red. more of the grey. grainy and rough, like a dead puddle. the road-marks kept silence and shone in the dark till the cars all left and their headlights with them. in the dark, all red is black. what will remain when/as the liquid […]

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june 3, 2019

Today he would have been 36. Three dozen years on this earth, under this sun. Who knows how life would have turned out, what his story would have been. We, who loved him, still do, I’m sure of it. We measure the time by his death: before he died, the year he died, after he […]

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green arches

Listen. Time passes. D. Thomas The green trajectory a leaf Leaves when floating to the floor, Cuts the air in arches. Time measures us all, Time allows us to fall Almost to the ground, and grinds Our memories for its tea. The green whispers in passing, Somersaulting through the landscape Of things that grow and […]

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between the mud and the blue

Up to my ankles in pollen, floating in recent puddles, whilst grumpy grandchildren watch, restrained by frantic grammas, I laugh. To be grown-up sometimes means to step into puddles and smell roses and jump to a tune played inside your own head. I laugh, and walk into rain envied by children, seen by the shuddering […]

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