Literary Vegan

The bee loves the tyme-flower, tumbles with it kiss-dipping down. Imagine being so light, you willow with visiting wings.

Teacup-chatter pigeons lifted into flight, a sudden spear — anxiety spiking in a six of spades  twilight card. The reason, regal, sashayed  into a late life sky being; amber under with warnings: this is the evening of the wolf-bird — you have no claim to the moon. 

Pound coins in coal tit feathers grip branches for the very first time. Courage, calling orange,  buttercup bellies out in the wind wild  — see these tiny antidotes to whatever salt you brought under the tree.

Lilac stars flinch in hail confusion, day insects hide. Pretty tin fingertips night-surface siren the fairy snakes.

My seedlings are three centimetres high. The magpie carries mud futures in its mouth and lilac sprouts tiny trumpets that swallowed too much. But still the sun bows  like a wet plant, unexpected ice hails in my tea cup. Spiders work harder with broken webs and I make art uncertain  of where it will end. 

When I am too tired to write, I lie down in someone else's lines; soothed by the weight of art and keeping words awake. LJ Ireton