Literary Vegan

There were no birds or shadows under this nonchalant sky of October, I mourned yellow and beaded eyes on the pond - the slowness of floating. I consoled myself with the rust-painted reeds: pleasing like red apples on snow, but these months, I know, are a waiting for beauty; thinking of the times I was in the right place, only later revealing to me why. In the evening the lead grey clouds rolled into a gold wheatfield falling of a sunset, twilight burning from the  white unused drift of the day. LJ Ireton, 2024

As my foot left sand I leapt into a different self: a dancer in the under-sky. Doubts can't swim - they live in cities. This satisfaction is imbued in salt - I want nothing. My fingers slide in the direction of the hills through surface stars, the water in me reunites, kicking. LJ Ireton, 2024

Contour feathers were growing over the stardust down of the chick,  tiny on the hillside copying the hen,  digging. Woken to the world, it was exact same pale gold  as its mother's tail, the tips of her wings. They moved together;  but one was assured and sharp,  the other a sweet disciple.  From this distance, nothing seemed more precious  than that palm-sized soul, delicate of the earth, imitating to live. I whispered over and over: protection  for this one.  And maybe, being a passing stranger, my prayer was small. But maybe it could grow strong wings too, long and waterproof, over my tufted feather-words.  LJ Ireton, 2024

It thundered unkind across the island like a tithe taken in the dark for seeking sanctuary. The force was roaring on beauty - why blow on stone already smooth, scatter water with water? Yet the dawn was an empty lung, a casual sun strolled across the sky the stray cats stretched into the light, Unnerved. Your turn , the towers of palm said, rustle-less; to leave your questions with the storm, the thoughts that bite each other. A white dove flew from a terracotta roof, the sky a fire blue  neither were thinking about rain. LJ Ireton, 2024

The Grecian sparrows have discovered  the shallow ledge of water  where pool meets tile but doesn't drop yet. They land in a row, following the bold one; who tested a beak and toe first on this not-ground,  and now they sit, or dip and shimmy feathers  at their own pace, liquid drops slipping off sand-brown, ruffled chests. There is no more hard stone edge - only the soft outlines of resourcefullness: a man-made armrest a sanctuary quenching teal thirst for seed-sized hearts. Take what you need little birds - may no-one ever stop you hopping in curious peace over our designs.  LJ Ireton, 2024 

Gold trickles down my hands, dirt and ash, sparks at the lifelines - stars on storm lines. Lightening explodes along my bones in call or answer I don't know - my skin a cloak to crackling blood - flames adding up the questions I didn't ask.  LJ Ireton, 2024