A Winter rise
The sun burns a butter-pearl disc
in the smoke-silk fog,
the trees turn gothic in the veil.
Cold morning, you are
a cathedral marble face
turning upwards to the candles.
C. LJ Ireton, 2025
Boleyn in the storm
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)
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