They lived in an urban terrace, side by side, with a stamp-sized front garden and somewhat larger one at the back, complete with washing line from fence to fence, a coal bunker and a tool shed. It took years to grow their individuality with roses. sweet-scented stock and peonies. They called each other by their […]
Month: March 2019
Kölsch (revisited)
Kölle Alaaf! I miss the echo in the streets, the crowds on Rudolfplatz and Neumarkt, the oompa pa of familiar Fastelovend songs and cries of ‘Kamelle!’ as sweets hailed down. You helped me dress up as a clown. I drank cold Kölsch, ate salty Pommes mit Mayonnais’. You taught me the words to ‘Mer losse […]
On the Edge
There’s a surge of crowd on the platform; the track looms too close for comfort and the train is imminent, according to the announcement, so I hug the wall, conscious of an icy spike of wind tugging me a little closer to the edge. Kim M. Russell, 11th March 2019 My response to dVerse Poets […]
Nesting
On the rooftop, sparrows twitter, peering quizzically from the gutter; they flurry feathers, swoop and pirouette, dodging in and out of privets. Peering quizzically from the gutter, they carry bits of twig and moss, dodging in and out of privets to patch and line their new-built nests. They carry bits of twig and moss and, […]
Goodbye Mundane Monday
I wake up early and greet another day, a mundane Monday, damp, cold and grey. Winter should be over, or so the buds tell me, there should be sunshine and daffodils. I watch a smoking feather, a skylark rising, and then a second hovers above the winter field – then another, and another ascend into […]
Time to Turn (a Quadrille)
Osier wands planted in November are almost trees. Now’s the time when we remember to pluck a switch or three of willow, white with soft, sleek buds, gold with catkins, sweet temptation to hungry humming bees, still drowsy and crawling from their winter sleep. Kim M. Russell, 6th March 2019 My response to dVerse Poets […]
The Clock of Tides and Stars (revised)
I smile at the clockwork birds ploughing sand, their black legs whirring, wound like clocks by the pull of Earth, a splash of spangled sanderlings. Ploughing sand, their black legs whirring, steered here by a cosmic force, a splash of spangled sanderlings followed the ancient paths of stars. Steered here by a cosmic force from […]
writing in north norfolk 