Moonlight Kyrielle

Let us tread softly, shadows glide
Between the trees; I’m by your side –
Our fingers brush, then move apart:
We’re waiting for our life to start.

We left the smoky, crowded bars
And said we’d look for shooting stars:
Across the sky – a flaming dart!
We’re waiting for our life to start.

I don’t believe you know my name,
Or what I want, or why I came.
You keep my secrets in your heart.
We’re waiting for our life to start.

We don’t know where this road will go,
But we will walk it, even so;
We have no map, no guide, no chart:
We’re waiting for our life to start.

I have to thank Jane Dougherty for another beguiling prompt. I hope I’ve done it justice. The kyrielle is a very structured form, and I struggle to make these sound natural.


Haibun Monday – “Too many mine”

I hold myself as carefully as a glass of wine, each angle carved from the air, each movement crafted in bone, in flesh, in skin; my breath a liquid weight in my chest; my mind entangled by my own movement. I find my way through the air, I pin myself to the ground, I hold myself here.

Control of breathing
The slow sliding movement of
Muscle under skin


Thank you for the prompt Jane Dougherty


On this silver day
When the storm has blown itself out
And rolls like a cat in the bay,
And the light itself
Meanders along the shoreline
Too lazy to catch fire,
I send you a map
Of a place you’ve forgotten,
And a key to the door
You locked yourself.

I send you the secret
You whispered
As you climbed aboard
The dream that would carry you.

On this silver day
When the sun trails
Ethereal veils
And each grain of sand
Is a diamond
I send you a thread
That will lead you home

If home is where you wish to be.


“Nothing is forbidden here” She said
“Only your dreams constrain you.
Here we are clothed in robes of smoke,
Drifting like indigo across the lawns;
Here love is fleeting, and desire a glance;
And still we cry like night birds
To the distant stars”

This is for today’s prompt from Jane Dougherty

The visual prompt is quite lush and romantic, so I let loose my inner Pre-Raphaelite. Big time. 

I have always had a liking for the whimsical and fantastical, and have always veered away from writing poetry that reflects that side of me. I am quite enjoying letting it run free, and tagging along for the ride!

The weeping angel

We watched the storm come in
From the horizon, faster
Than a bird could fly.
Cowered all night beneath its wings
Beating at our small house.

Next morning, we walked down
To see the sea, and all the world
Washed clean and new

And on the beach, we found an angel
Broken by the winds,
His wings all torn and twisted
So he couldn’t fly

My sister knelt up close,
But I held back – I am
The cautious one – and then
She said “What colour
Are an angel’s tears?” –
Holding up something
Strangely bright, as if she held
A golden penny in her hand.

And then he turned to us,
Face sorrowful and majestic
And spoke, his voice as bright
As sunlight on a window,
“Our tears” he said “Take different hues
Depending on their causes.

The soft purple of an evening sky
When we weep with a mother
Who has lost a child;
Red as a storm cloud
When we weep in anger
At the foolishness of men;
Blue as the distant sea
When our tears mingle with a
Grieving widower’s. Every
Tone and shade.

I am not weeping for myself”
He said, “But for the world.
There are too few of us,
And who will weep with you
When I am gone?”

And so we took him home –
He was so light
A child could carry him.
We smoothed his twisted wings
And fed him honeycomb
And clear clean well water –
As if he was a bird,
Or some bright insect.

And in the morning, he was gone.