It thundered unkind across the island like a tithe taken in the dark for seeking sanctuary. The force was roaring on beauty - why blow on stone already smooth, scatter water with water? Yet the dawn was an empty lung, a casual sun strolled across the sky the stray cats stretched into the light, Unnerved. Your turn , the towers of palm said, rustle-less; to leave your questions with the storm, the thoughts that bite each other. A white dove flew from a terracotta roof, the sky a fire blue neither were thinking about rain. LJ Ireton, 2024
Seven years of not close enough: of lust embroidered buttons, your bristled cheeks ruby flush with the me you can't have; you would shiver, King. Now you act like you don't remember anything, glare with impatience at the goblet you drank from, turning my bones pewter. Did you taste your wine, notes of clove while lifting your hand, a sign for another? My eyes flash silver, teeth clenched from the edge. I am everything you wanted to undress, except the present tense. 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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