Winter night

Light’s spilling from the window,
warm as gingerbread,
sticky as love.
Light’s spilling from the window
and I pause here for a moment,
between the dark blue night and
the light spilling from the window,
warm as gingerbread.

In December, we triolet. Another triolet, unrhymed, unrhythmed, stretched and bent, but still recognisable.

Advent

I just feel that we should be planting something,
pressing our fingers deep into the dark earth.
What, though? I can’t think of it –
I just feel that we should be planting something –
hopes – dreams – fairy lights?
I don’t know. Memories of sunshine?
I just feel that we should be planting something,
pressing our fingers deep into the dark earth.

I’m planning to spend December playing with triolets. This is for earthweal – a triolet of hoping and waiting.

Souvenirs – for dVerse

You see me striding past, hand luggage only,
You think I don’t have space for souvenirs,
And yet I mark each inch of earth below me
As I go loping past, hand luggage only –
And if you had the chance to get to know me
You’d see my skin holds memories of my years.
You see me walking past, hand luggage only,
Not knowing how I bear my souvenirs.

A triolet for dVerse, where we are asked to write about a memento. I fancied doing a form, so this is a triolet. I’m hoping to find time to do something more free-form – maybe for Open Link night at  the poets’ pub.