It’s so cold my skin hurts.  We park the car

behind a camper van and follow another group,

walking slowly so as not to trip over long grass. 

I trip anyway.  The stones are in front of us

but it’s so dark I can barely see them. 

There are other people around but the groups

don’t mix –  satellites in their own orbit.

Above us the Milky Way stretches on and on.

So many stars, it’s overwhelming for a

city girl – its vastness and my consequent

triviality – and it’s truly beautiful.  We

can’t speak.  We stand and we look at

the sky with its delicate pointillism,

other worlds, other suns, a dark forest.

Time stops. 

The aurora doesn’t appear that

night.  We don’t mind.

This type of poem (in which the first word is repeated on each line) is called an anaphora.

Because of hawthorn, with its coiled suggestion of pink.

Because light streaks the clouded sky at the end of a day.

Because of the jolt of primrose yellow when a Brimstone passes.

Because the dog curls into a question mark on the unmade bed.

Because of the shock of anarchic purple heather on the side of a hill.

Because of your smile, and the softness of your eyes.

Because of candy striped cranes against a slowly setting sun.

Because of freshly made bread, and the joy of sharing it.

Because of a sudden screech of blue when a kingfisher flies by.

Because of the unexpected thrill of beauty upon hearing music.

Because we are here, now, and because this life is astonishing.

I was a grey seal, my lush fur

crusted with salt and pearls –

until that day when I lay too long upon

the shore. He stole my hide,

placed it in a herring net and took it.

I raged at the foaming sea for

a long hour, spitting at sailors

and empty-eyed gulls.

My sisters left without me to

dance on other rocks while

I remained, marooned on these legs.

A woman.  Such is my curse.

I learned your ways, slowly, achingly. 

I look human, but don’t mistake me:

I’m the dark part of the sea, the

swell that pulls you under.  My

limbs long for their own undoing.

One day the water will come for me,

call to me with violent urgency.

You’ll awaken to find empty

clothes and saltwater by the bed –

the remains of half a wife.

Note: A monostitch is a one line poem in which the title can offer a clue to the poem’s context.

He shimmers by dressed in yellow, completely unaware that he’s late to the party.

Let’s leave aside your usefulness, for now.

None of us wants to be merely functional,

although you are handy to have around.

We’ll instead consider your form – your sleek

ergonomic levers like a pair of well-toned thighs,

encouraging lateral movement.  There’s

something a little uncanny about you –

pun unintended – you’re a tiny mechanical man

with a wide O of a mouth, as if you are forever

surprised at the things you open, your handle

spinning excitedly like a clown’s bow-tie.

From the back your metal secrets become visible,

your twin hearts spinning in tandem as you fulfil

your life’s purpose.  You are as beautiful as you

are ingenious, and you allow me to open the beans.

Too much was made of the danger of quicksand.
I was terrified, that summer in Rhyl, when my brothers
ran onto the beach where the signs were – I saw them
pulled under, drowned, while I watched. Helpless.
I cried. They didn’t encounter any quicksand, but
I was still afraid. Of building sites too – as if I’d ever
play on one. I was the kid who’d be taken out
of the hall when those films were shown. The kid
who had nightmares. The real dangers were
different, but I wasn’t to know. A hand held out
as if in friendship. Cruelty disguised as love. The
loss of love which is supposed to last forever.

Off prompt today. I met a friend in Manchester so decided to write about that.

Red bricks and primary rectangles.
Smiling hearts: Pink Orange Red Green
Tall windows, raised red letters.
Backpacks on backs.
Rain spattered tarmac and
dripping red metal.
Bicycle hoops and empty trees,
grey window frames. Plastic plants,
real coffee.

NaPoWriMo Day 4: The prompt is to write about an example of an extraordinary feat of nature, from The Strangest Things in The World. I chose to write about the Blue Moonwort flower, which tunnels its way up through inches of ice to reach the sunlight above.

How impossible you are, little snowbell; your

delicate head bulldozing through solid ice. 

Nothing to see here: just your sassy self,

tunnelling up to the light towards your

relentless survival. Beneath the silent ground

a fury of combustion is taking place,

a subterranean tussle for ascendancy.

You blaze in your quest for life,

pushing upwards with dogged certainty

before your final, glorious exit into sunshine.

You are astonishing.

An evolutionary grand-slam.  If you can

do this, then what’s insurmountable?

Let’s sit together for a while.  When I’m with

you everything seems quieter.  We don’t have

to do anything in particular with our time – just

listen to the soft sounds around us.  The

background music of the road, pressed down by

the insistent hush you bring, until it’s no more than

a hum.  Sharp birdsong, called back and forth

between the neighbours’ trees.  The impatient

drone of a bee.

It wasn’t love at first sight between us.  When we

met you were someone else’s – they had changed

you with their own dreams.  It took a while to make

you mine.  I wonder if you prefer the old way,

the neatness of it. Or are you happy with the disorder –

the haphazard tumbling of poppies and dahlias,

sunflowers and daisies.  An osmosis of wild and cultivated.

Eager life falling from every crack, every dark place.

It’s the only way I know how to care for you.