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Erosion

Unerring yet erratic
The weight of water never waits
for readiness
Sandstone is proven to be
a two-faced liar
a pretence of solidity written
into the features of its rockface
which crumbles under a wave’s supremacy
and we wave goodbye
to all we knew

Lynne Nesbit

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Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess
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Seasons

To each a season: the planets Turn in Kepler's gyre, Swelling the mental weather, Fattening the wealth Of light and dark I weekly Feel in my own solitude. To each a season: a death Of what was hard and cold: A burst of sun to break My hoary sadness And gild the shining tower I build around your smile. But let's not talk of sun But speak instead of life And all the things I feel When living through mortality. The lovely times We feast and meagre times We only feed on memories. I have my seasons. Tim Holt-Wilson
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Hawk Moth

Hawk moth Waiting alone Tenderness revealed, In the Shadow of the Friary. Cushioned wind Stifling air Song thrush Beckons the Spirit of the summer. Afloat with thoughts Memories of Parched earth and forgotten Spheres. Suzanne
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Thoughts Beside a Stream

Flowing alongside water's edge An overflow of activity And constricted Jumbled thoughts. Broken passages and swollen memories of channelled energies And intermittent promises. Hungry vines Competing for light Succumbed to the fragility of life. Awash with echoed considerations Downstream they float Towards a bareness. Dynamic vitality Sparkling from the frontier Invigorated to the final source. Daniel  
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Voices Unknown

An unknown voice Aside the thought Asked who am I? Replied the force within, “I am all I can feel And reach. “ Daniel
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Torn Apart

Afterwards it was a long process, two years rolled into ten, of letting go, letting it out. She stumbled through days, drank warmed milk or camomile, paced all night. She worked; walked in the green; bathed in geranium and rose oil hot baths; and only talked to those friends who made her laugh. No sugar, no wine, went vegan, but tears, so much wetness like the churning of rainwater tumbling into a ravine frothing, drowning she fought for breath. She tried counting her blessings. She put on the lost smile, pretended. She made consciously positive statements about herself, about others. No-one knew. She went to happy places, spent time with good people. She allowed the tears, gushing taps, to drench at night kissing her lips with salt, with stinging, with coldness. Sometimes, now, even after all these years words needle her memory, but that is the stitching pulling, snagging. Soon there will only be a scar. No getting over it. Just a mend to staunch the bleeding. Sue Foster
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Tins

Back then, I couldn't understand. Why so many tins, mum? Towers of carrots, beans and soups. Spaghetti in tomato sauce. She was shaped by war and disability. Rations and depletions. Unreachable shops. The anxiety of uncertainty. Now I'm shaped by the virus war. Rations and depletions. Unsafe shops. The anxiety of uncertainty. I understand, now, and worry. Look at my own tin towers. Just ahead of the panic, Stores drying up, fear building. Ashamed of how I mocked. Unable to say sorry, To say that I understand. Complacent no more. by Adrian Image by Ti Wi via Unsplash
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From one frog to humans, or 'Go dig a Pond'

Burnt summer, Another hot summer Without a drop of water I wait It’s only June. With ochre hives And forgotten tones Of emerald green Parched fields and thorny hegderows. A dead speckled wood I’d rather eat fresh Is on the menu today, tomorrow unknown. A bleak summer ahead, Our long forgotten cousins Creep steathily unseen Waiting silently for clouds. A buttercup-yellow Marsh marigold forest Croaked from Floating reeds and choked crispy chickweed. Andrew Toms
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Drying the Eco Way

Rope across the lawn and a long fork-ended wooden prop too heavy until I was eight. Wooden pegs on a shiny spring never two pronged ‘dollies’ until I was twelve. Then I was delighted by a 24 pack of red, yellow, blue, white and green and, joy of joys pink plastic pegs.  Plastic coated metal line-twine across the balcony on pulleys and reels to be hauled across the Calla Boucheria to the apartment opposite on Mondays, Tuesdays or Saturdays. They could haul theirs across to my hook on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Neither of us ever could or did, on Sundays. The wooden horse in a Muswell Hill bedsit dank, mouldy drying space for a single young professional trying to pay her rent. Wouldn’t use the in-situ white-goods dryer concern for the environment a principle. Too many work blouses and not enough space or money to be clean or crisp. Danish designed the eco dryer fits into a corner easily. It takes heat and drying time from a radiator. Hanging all your clothes a whole wardrobe...
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