The heartbeat of the whale-throat sea is slow, pushing a world's blood: blue heavy with history, into prophecy that licks into waves like a dragon's tongue frothy with wind and disbelief. But I believe – my red rhythm recognises something floating furious, my own pulse dances in the bigger beast's drum. And creature, we scream the dirt and silver of the storm, eroded limbs and salt-eyed strong breaking the line of water into a circle – myself into myself back up to the surface. C. LJ 2025 (Inspired by Six Wild Crowns)
The tea-coloured soil is stiff, dry that giving-up line on the faded myth of spring I wake it with fork and fingers, twist the deeper dark out, blinking in the sudden, burnt light. Turning the un-oiled tin of winter upside down - I'm pouring butter potential now, blood colours stir the size of insect buttons. I pull cosmos dusk, ox-eyed daisy seed futures down from the borders of my cobwebbed mind. My wanting to try was iced by the moon nights, you are the words I release with the trowel for the ladybird to land on, the moth, any frozen spirit, needing to hear flowers after the silent cold. C. LJ Ireton 2025
Lioness, outside The Garden Not all is lost - my lion walks loyal beside us. She was where I lay my head under the low stars, in the uncomplicated, verdant heart of living; where ground-wings opened to pink and perfume ever-present. He called her Ariel. I call her Ari. She carries the star-thrum energy of earth newly created; all fire eyes and focus, yellow allegiance, claws on instinct. Whereas I - I can't stop thinking. I leave our tent; bark and stem like praying hands and rest on her sand-coloured fur - She is still the same; four-legged land of the horizon, muscles of vine and forehead of moss, a head that moves like water around a river bend - a moving, prowling garden. No, not all is lost. LJ Ireton, 2024
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