Literary Vegan

There is a sin-like storm seconds away. Outside, the wind seems to swipe at steel and tree alike - the smoke of centuries  reveals a cold, petulant heart kicking at the air. I reach an arm out to the steadily breathing ground:  the animals near me. Their foreheads of fur are striped fields of wheat, pampas, poppies snoring in the sun. I trace one line of Eden with a slowed heartbeat - a fingertip of a vision, but the gale is shrieking now and I must hold the memory of grass.  LJ Ireton, 2025 

I raised the bunched daisies, dahlias and peach-pink gerberas; unassuming, with burgundy eyes to the moon. A reintroduction - we had all spent the day under artificial light and in the absence of roots grounded ourselves again In lace reflection,  star to star. On this icy night  after being on show to people here we are; silent, grateful wolves petal jaws, faces silver.  LJ Ireton, 2024

Green grace, creature air is a memory in this percussive smoke of a place. The snail, the pied wagtail brave the pavement; breathing spirals and stripes with eyes - a dip and slide of redemption smaller than my palm delicate, old world. LJ Ireton, 2025

He appeared from the mist; that ancient damp magic - masked and stoic, colossal, but unassuming - just consumed in soul-staring with tarred eyes into a slippery, anxious culture. I don't see a messenger, but a traveller carrying the hulk of time in a huge feathered shell and never drops it - like he has seen everything  yet still finds life effulgent,  worthy of his watch.  LJ Ireton, 2024 

The winter solstice wind blew away the unwanted, turning lead into cobwebs; grey withered fingers failing to grip  the light underneath. Like my own ribcage has been swept for dust, a small star thuds sensing the ascent. Anticipation rows across the sky, along my bloodstream. The morning is the colour of a sheep's fleece;  not clean, but grazing. We held on, I held on with small flames from fairies and candles -  But the relief, the relief  of the day returning, fields in sight. LJ Ireton, 2024

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

Everything that breathes wild, sleeps; the roaring given over to the wind, screaming through the trees that were sanctuary. Even the fairytale stars, inherently kind,  appear cruel, burning only frost light through the black lake of sky. I am unwanted by the outside; winter hunts the human. Everything healing is  under the snow,  with patient claws. So I must, too, let sadness, want and  not-understanding roam; whirling with snowflakes, dirt and everything Earth has to say right now; while I find the creature, the candle  the deep, deep dream that will emerge when the time of the anti-sun is over -  read her stories of wolves and warm star-bears - she will need them in the thawing. C. LJ Ireton, 2024