Back To The Start… #DVersePoets

So it started with a broken laptop. Or maybe it started with your brother, pointing you towards a target, that wasn’t me by any means, but I was somewhere on the other side of it.

Or maybe it started with an offer made to my Grandfather, which he passed onto my mother and her new husband. Or maybe it started with a newspaper ad, Welshmen need not apply. Or maybe it started in Ireland, with a broken engagement and a ferry ticket.

Or maybe we are so far from the start there is no point loosing myself on the path back to it.

The sun rose again,

and the weather changed its tune

but that’s not the start.

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Rooftops At Sunrise – #FridayFiction

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The ladder from the garage wasn’t quite tall enough to reach all the way, but it brought us within touching distance of the guttering. From there you could pull yourself up and afterwards, reach down for my hands, smaller, thinner, not quite as adept at clambering about.

I let you lead me to a lot of places I couldn’t reach on my own.

Perhaps I should have worried sooner about being left behind but back then all I could think of was how strong you were. Lifting me like a bag of sugar to watch the sun set beside you.

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PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Crooked Crockery

In my parents house there are cupboards crammed with mugs. The matching sets seem to fade at various speeds, one never quite the same rate as the others, and the mugs near the back are so crippled and cracked you’d wonder who’d even dare to drink from them. In the summer when the days are long and the fields full of tractors, we rediscover the cups barely larger than a thimble. The ones that only come out when the dishwasher is mid-cycle, and everything else is scattered across driver cabins and pick-ups. These are the days when the cry goes up for the purge and new eco-systems are discovered.

In my own house, the mugs are just as mismatched. While the other half buys four the same, I horde crockery one piece at a time. Even the sets are unique in each individual piece. One a pheasant, a rooster, a hare, a fox. Sizes, patterns, colours, the cupboard is a threatened explosion. Some speak for me, ‘Go Away I’m Writing’, ‘It’s Okay, Writers Are Supposed To Be Strange’, while others are simply bowls mascaraing around in a handle. What? It still counts as a single cup of tea.

I can trace my timeline through the cups of tea I have drank. Through the gifts and the purchases cluttering the kitchen.

Leaves turn to amber

as autumn’s fingers creep near.

Tea brews in the pot.

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I might be a little obsessed with mugs, I will admit that. I’m very proud of the collection I have amassed so far in my life. It’s a beautiful collection! See for yourself:

Tonight’s inspiration over at dVerse Poets Pub is imperfection and it’s Haibun Monday night so the haikus will be out in force! If you want to join in then you can click the badge above and visit the pub for yourself. Happy writing.

Moments Of Magic

The memory has lost some of its sharpness,

like a photo with dog-eared corners

and thumb worn edges

rediscovered from somewhere forgotten

and old.

But I can still feel the scratch on my palms

of chunky stone walls

marching onward towards the shore

where the sea swam darkening

around the ruins of an ancient fort.

While the sun sunk beneath the waves

and I squinted for a sight of Ireland on the horizon,

and the sky turned red and orange and pink and…

green.

A single streak of emerald,

old news to the locals,

but pure magic to me.

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Stranraer – Scotland

Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt: Vivid

 

 

Speed Bump

I always forgot that the bump was coming. The little humpback bridge on the road to The Wharf. The one that sent your stomach into your throat, that had my sister and I whooping in the back of the car, small hands clutching the seats, convinced we had momentarily left the ground.

I could believe we were flying back then. When you’re small everything seems bigger, faster, brighter than life. Granddad’s driving was like that for us. Bug eyed at seventy on the speedometer. We thought that was the fastest that anyone could possibly ever go. He was wild and exciting, not like those fuddy-duddies crawling along at twenty down the A41.

He doesn’t take the bridge as fast as he used to. Now that I’m older, I think he only sped up for my sister and I, to make us smile and shriek. A lot of what he did when we were small was to make us laugh. We were his princess, and he was out merrymaker.

‘Gone to see a man,

about a dog’ he’d tell us.

Greying with winter.

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Tonight’s prompt was to write a Haibun based on a childhood memory. I wasn’t sure if I was going to partake with this one as last week I wrote a couple of poems rooted in my childhood, and I try not to write to vary my topics when I write poetry or I end up writing the same thing.

In the end I chose a memory that hasn’t shown up in any of my poems yet. At this rate you’ll soon be able to piece together my whole childhood just from the poetry section on this blog!