Whistle stop
I hear the wind, open-mouthed,
rounding the side of iron buildings;
a pantomime ghost.
I wish endlessly for a gust of butterflies,
a spray of ladybirds returning;
the burning breath of the living.
C. LJ Ireton, 2026
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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