Boxing Day Parakeets

By -
The blood-berry tree,
no leaves
is full of parakeets;
pick and grip red to red beak.

I run past, repeating limbs underneath
to distract myself from dreams 
I haven't achieved yet,
but they —
they powder green scream it. 


LJ Ireton, 2025

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Boleyn in the storm

By -
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)
Read more

Lioness, outside The Garden

By -
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
Read more

Any frozen spirit

By -
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
Read more