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May birds on the balcony

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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. 
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If I could, I would write all the time

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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 
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Reading by the moon

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A swish of a tail and a trail of sherbert stars lifts from your palms; moon-wings, robins and bees play on glitter streams woven into the dark — you dust our thoughts, sweetening the forest with pastel paws and pumpkins.  For Laura Ellen Anderson  LJ Ireton, 2026
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The shape of words

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Write into the silence — we find ourselves through paper mirrors.  LJ Ireton, 2026
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Where he goes to

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I saw the whole underbelly of the red kite from my window heading home taking the roof off mine. LJ Ireton, 2026
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Cathedral in silk

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Before bombs, the butterflies rose hundreds, like dust motes. Before the saints, wings of iris, teal, tiger  made the stains in the born light — arched by the arms of the trees, insect veins the soldering marks of glass.  Before we could break things, windows flew. LJ Ireton, 2026.
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When the air is hinting

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The blossom is here, defrosting minds in puffs but the sky, its breath, can't decide how it wants us to feel. Or else the tease  is the season — equidistant from chilled solitary unchange, snow-bandaged thoughts  and fever-still grass, hearing messages of the future  on forked feet. LJ Ireton, 2026
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