Ink will fade given long enough. Even stone weathers, back to rock with the help of time.
Cut me off at the ankles or so you said, stood astride my stump, saw grinned. ‘Not so pretty now are we’ either of us. Spent the winter finding my roots, you brought on your hot house girls throwing out the deadheads before they even had chance to wilt. Spring freshened up all that toughening from too many years the same. Found new shoots moving upwards, more bend, less bark to my bite. Summer and I redecorated it all, cloaked myself in colour, announced my presence, my survival. Dared you to try cutting me down again.
The peas have podded. I’m not sure if it’s the snap, or your bog standard, good old trusty garden type, but they’ve podded first with the white petals of the flowers still stuck to the green of their shells. Inside the crop is still too small, too young. I checked today. Popped my nail into the seam, slit through the flesh, cracked it open. New growth, old book. They both sound the same. They are not ready for harvest, but when you bite down they explode. They taste like spring, or summer, or something else that’s hot days and sudden rain storms. They tasted like they should do. New and fresh. It’s been a wet one, this spring, this downpour of water thickening the green.
I looked up what ivy was supposed to represent, after we called the man with the poison to clear the wooden fence panel right to the root. This creeping plant, that works its way between the cracks, and closes its fist so slowly, so quietly, that you cannot see the brickwork break, it’s supposed to represent friendship. I thought about you then, how I’d failed to see how deep you’d planted yourself until the moment that you cracked me clean in half. Like ivy, you keep coming back no matter the cold or the drought, there is no prying those tendrils loose, no poison that will make this shadow of you wither. I must live with the damage you have caused. I must somehow learn how not to crumble.
I could sleep here, belly warm against the stone arms splayed, wings, bent at the elbows, reaching perhaps to hold but for now still, warm, cheek pressed to rock sun baked, lazy, stubbornly forgotten long ago when this place was ice long from melting. Since there is no Quadrille night this Monday over at DVersePoets I thought I’d write one inspired by my recent trip to Snowdonia National Park. The views were utterly stunning and it really does feel like you’re escaping the modern world. A Quadrille is a poem written in exactly 44 words. The DVerse Poets Pub runs a fortnightly Quadrille prompt for those who fancy having a go in the company of some wonderful fellow blogger/poets.
When swallows gather in groups it’s called a mummeration. As one they ripple in waves turning the sky to ocean their tiny dark bodies pointillism. Fleck of black on blue morphing into a single rush of soaring bodies scooping themselves into glorious arcs and spirals. When they are gone the sky is empty and alone. Clouds litter like styrofoam cups abandoned when the crowds leaves to stumble home. All is left is the wait for seasons to change. Daily Prompt: Congregate
Some days are made for ambling. Those slow, soft, warm days, when the breeze only stirs lazily and the sun slouches across the sky, scuttled with wispy mares’ tails, too relaxed to do much of anything. Those days are the best for long walks through country lanes with arching oaks, and dappled woodlands with root woven soils to leave your shoes scuffed your knees mud streaked and your hands stained by bark. Those days should take you places, those nowhere in particular places, before finding yourself closer to home than you would have ever thought. Daily Prompt: Amble I’ve been for a couple of walks this year with the other half. I want to see if we can visit Grinshill Hill this month but the weather doesn’t look like it’s going to let up much for a few weeks. I’ve been up it a few times as a child but not in the last five or six years, perhaps longer. Tell me, what are the places you like to go on those lovely not-too-hot, just …
Whispers through tree tops, buzzards screeching soaring keys, farmyard symphonies. Daily Prompt: Symphony
The orchid’s in bloom after three months of neglect. The perfect houseplant.
Rain drops like marbles hammer themselves into lakes only to vanish.