A little toy engine sits on my shelf, It isn’t mine. I didn’t buy it for myself, It was part of a birthday present for a special boy, a battery-run, magnetic, self-propelling toy that was meant to pull its wagons round a track. It didn’t work and I had to bring it back. A replacement […]
Tag: Weekly Scribblings
A Way Back to the Garden
In the garden she was lovingly cultivating, Mother Nature stood back. The plants were doing well, flourishing even, producing flowers and fruit of every colour, even some she hadn’t invented yet – they were going it alone. Birds and insects carried pollen from one part of the garden to another, cross-pollinating, creating forest and jungle, […]
What happened to the snow?
What happened to winter snow, hoary patterns on windows, frozen ponds to skate on, icicles hanging from the gutter? Sun worshippers may think it doesn’t matter and wonder why we mutter at unseasonal weather, unconcerned that snowdrops and daffodils bloom early, blackthorn roots are purply and willow tops froth with yellowy green. Is it the […]
Antibacterial
On a cold blue morning, she will sit on a crowded rattling train, antibacterial gel in her pocket, avoiding other people’s faces, sneezes, coughs and stares. She might fidget on her seat, watch the burgeoning greenery, the fresh flashes of fields and trees as she hurtles towards the city: crowds of strangers, with their mouths […]
Incision
The sharp blade splits smooth skin, spilling the ruby jewels within and staining fingers with fruity blood. Its sticky flesh holds heavenly food, the luscious seeds small surprises as they crush between white incisors, trickling juice upon the tongue, a crimson, fertile, sour song. Kim M. Russell, 27th February 2020 My response to Poets and […]
Tribute to the Magpie’s Tail
Among the high branches of the silver birch struts a handsome magpie, jet black on creamy white, not still and quiet like the pigeon on the branch next door, but constantly chattering and fidgeting, see-sawing its tail to keep balance. It’s a fine, long tail, a stick of charcoal scribbling in the grey February sky. […]
Wriggle and Squirm
Sometimes, when the sun has gone to bed, a can of words opens in my head, too tired to stop them wriggling across my brain, they leave slime and detritus, worry and pain, a blot on the landscape of my weary creativity. I carry them with me up the creaky stairs and, as soon as […]
