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
My spirit was swung low like a string hammock so I lay with it, sunken under the hottest star to meld or fuse what it could. I opened my eyes to the sure, steady mind of a Red Kite, cutting through finger-smudged clouds and all uncertainty - an ever-winning coin. Under the relentless energy of the Sun And the set red bend of bone and feather, one strand pulled taut, alert again. I thought of poetry; the beautiful things forever flying fierce: star stripes, bronze birds, truth - all these strong lines in the sky are under my blood; my tired self is still singing. LJ Ireton, 2024
My sunflowers are half-sun, half-rust ring unusual - the petals are starting to drift still beautiful, lone flyers like the bronze wings above them flying right over the sun - a clawed kite, haloed fork tail stirring me from numb wordlessness. I write of this flame that you might know the yellow flower, look up - up, where prayers go, riding briefly on birds of prey. That the hollow cold of not knowing can fill, burn with just a flutter past the eye, a kingfisher blur, like orange sugar to a curious mind wandering in the shade. LJ Ireton, 2024
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