Literary Vegan

It is a sharp, silver day - Made by a wind Grieving.  Trees and reeds sway to bend, Sway to bend But the goldfinch rubs His little head On the spray Delicate and red With an unmoveable agenda, And the maiden grass Stands back up, her Feather tips falling Into the sun's  Closing prayer. Even as the cold air stings, I see softness   And the pencil grey clouds allow a Moment for the plumes of straw To be spun into gold, Spun into gold.  LJ Ireton 2024

It is not yet Spring,  When I can call my curated vines Of violet and lemon meaning Out of the ground From winter's writhing roots; That press against the edges of my mind  And curl back around In want of surety, Sun-blessings, The curiosity of others. It is not yet Spring-  The unravelling of the tangible Into Time,  That doesn't go back again  Into the dark - It dances on your lips, Dips into hedgerows In pastel colours  Sense-making,  Breathing purple. It is not yet Spring - When I can watch What I already know Like a kite, Tipping its head  At its tail, Streamer roots Tasting the sky. Not yet.  LJ Ireton 2024  

There is a tint this evening The robin sings in pink and grey Even if no-one hears him,  Like the birdsong gone before, forgotten. I can dwell on reason so much That nothing gets written at all,  But the twilight tonight is lighter -  A smokey rose  And my words began on the branches, Breathed out into the cloud lines Pink and grey. Maybe they won't be heard, But it's about the saying - Back into the sky Living, before the night.  LJ Ireton 2023