Literary Vegan

Used plates clink bright above, below; ceramic notes of a Xylophone  we are all playing. C. LJ Ireton, 2026.

A song is a skipping stone on a bone-still lake, roads deep dropping into the stomach  of the found. One hundred times a water kiss — the head tilt familiar naming something  for the city sunset hungry. Then the submerge — playing fish-scales  down as lonely bubbles and calling bells meet  in new and old voices.  LJ Ireton, March 2026.

The sun had harboured  the eminent red  of the moorhen emerging now through the weed of winter — war paint ready to a tentative  spring lake.  C. LJ Ireton, 2026

What words can I use to express my gratitude  for the sun returning? I cross the room and my cat is claw to claw basking in the slant lines of Spring light gilt through the window like she's been given jewellery.  She's saying it for me.  C. LJ Ireton 2026

Every time you let your head rest in my hand, trust tucked against my palm, I remember the first night you did that, much smaller. The unchanging dimension is love. C. LJ Ireton, 2026

I started to write about The Divine, using a garden — but it all came out a classic style; similes and seedlings, hymn-like, something about Eden and growing. What I really meant to say was:  the God of everything  knows my favourite flowers. C. LJ Ireton, 2026