Literary Vegan

A sleeping cat, smiling and spiralled into serenity, stillness, wrapped around a tea cup,  warm after waking. fragrance, like hovering fairies vanilla, lavender, melted sugar any sparkle on skin, iridescent anything, actually  diamonds dotted around a platinum ring, pendants that could have belonged to old queens, what the birds say, especially robins, a reading book and thinking of your face. C. LJ Ireton, 2025

The grey part of the dreaming is peering through sheer gap  after sheer gap: jagged ovals between drops of the rain thrum continual on your window, day after day, for a hint of that neon-shaded sun — tangerine letters you recognise  as your own.  C. LJ Ireton, 2025 

In the ever-growing, ever-giving  green pearl butterfly buds  on leaves after the snow, in the rose burst through the night-line; the white-black frost-hold about to be painted bloom-bee yellow, in the hop-sing of the dawn birds — a morning wing wake-up pink melody prayer that filters through the forest,  sifts into sea bubbles, and rustles into a lullaby to be lifted from water wind, is the always-song. Gaze upon the milk-flower in the pebbles grown one, little one. Listen to thin blush drum of each standing petal.  LJ Ireton, 2025

I saw a seagull flying through the snow — a poem sounded,  soft bellied,  ready to land. C. LJ Ireton, 2025