Literary Vegan

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 

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

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

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

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.