Posts

'the soul may fix its intellectual eye'*

By -
There's a settling  and a thirst  when inside you find your focus; child's button simple your surroundings slow in your heart's haste: every thing but this seems to get in the way you hold up frayed notebooks  to this umbrella of suspended rain; snow, dust, pollen, days floating outside of your path, a falling acorn ache because you know the thing you're  running for under this  mind willow drape — pulse barking loose apple blossoms line your feet; you could make a dress out of them you feel so root beautiful in want, in meeting. LJ Ireton, 2026 *quoting Mary Shelly
Post a Comment
Read more

Gathering

By -
The mustard thrush picks at ivy — speckled sun in the brown wood damp. My fingers are numb looking for narrative out here; none of them wondering if they're doing enough of the thing that makes them feel connected to themselves. The squirrel with her cheeks full of leaves could be carrying the universe so sure is she of the nested Spring to come. I scratch my skin in frustration  and fill my cheeks with words.  C. LJ Ireton, 2026
Post a Comment
Read more

Whistle stop

By -
I hear the wind, open-mouthed, rounding the side of iron buildings; a pantomime ghost. I wish endlessly for a gust of butterflies, a spray of ladybirds returning; the burning breath of the living. C. LJ Ireton, 2026
Post a Comment
Read more

Valentine

By -
Roses roam the streets in plastic coats shielding them from February rain. They could do this every day — the petal-flooding of hearts, freely. C. LJ Ireton, 2026
Post a Comment
Read more

Fishing

By -
There is a moorhen on the grass  as the sky's shadow falls, forward and exploring brave away from the black water. My mind is trapped, ever-tumble-turning weed words not managing one yellow foot out onto the reasoned bank. Until I think of him, later curious in the dark looking for food in rising places.  C. LJ Ireton, 2026
Post a Comment
Read more

Winter waking

By -
Black steam trails over the snow moon. February rains on, but with glowing cheeks.  Pale hyacinth, an old Wuthering Heights and brushed cardigans frame the bed. I pull the blanket over from January's side and say,  I've waited .  C. LJ Ireton 
Post a Comment
Read more

In lieu of leaves

By -
The empty trees were a cacophony  of little lungs, blaring  birds; black, speckled, sparrow. Not for the first time I see February leaves are feathers — barren branches space for bodies round in the empty white 'v's but the sound —  I could sit in that sound over a million city crowds loud thin beaks nestled in my head I am me and I am me they sing — no pushing  just diagonal words,  twigs on twigs. C. LJ Ireton, 2026
Post a Comment
Read more