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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds
In every weather
Had dropped every feather
The weight sometimes
Of all those why's
A ton of lead
Or a ton of words unsaid
Down on a feathered bed
The weight belies
The width of squawks
When the birds are dead
And they sing remembering
When a ton of song
Weighed the same as
Fly away Autumns
Flu away fall
Feather or not
Bird at all.

Stephen Kirin

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View From the Window

Nature flourishes; society’s fabric hangs, this spring, by a thread. Green fronds of bamboo peer over our wall and wave at me through the glass. Spreading her palms wide, Fatsia Japonica plays the drama queen. A small fishing craft manoeuvres its way back home to harbour’s safety. The black cormorant with horizontal plumb line flies directly home. Billowing white clouds recall lazy days, laid back, dreaming, on the grass. A small patch of blue parts the clouds high above me, lifting my spirits. Cerulean skies, like a vast ocean without visible limits. Pink, turquoise and grey offer us celestial colour therapy. Irrepressible, waving tamarisk defies winter’s harsh pruning. Copying nature, we wave from our balconies, applauding heroes. Julia Duke
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Solitude of Pines

With a frail And uncertain future Breathing in rhythmical pines Calms my thoughts. Solitude I seek Within the forest Amorphous blankets of snow Covering crestfallen waves. Spirited wind Melancholy whispers A tear falls Past traumas relived. Ephemeral bird calls Wispy clouds and frost Revitalises lost energies I no longer feel lost.     Matthew  
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Wind Rush

With wind rushing through the reeds I close my eyes I feel the breeze on my cheeks and take a deep breath in. I hear the grebe calling across the water. I breathe out deeply; The warm day has brought spring birds whistling from their canopies. I open my eyes I smell the freshness through my nostrils. The swan glides past smoothly, unaware of myself. The comfort of nature surrounds me.  Melanie  
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Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan
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To Shed My Youthful Skin

To Survive Against at the odds of secure authorities And recognised establishments. I shed my youthful skin. I Thrive Against the odds I flourish and prosper Desolate and torn by institutions. The arrogance of the untouchables. Anon.
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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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Sweet Diatoms

Sweet diatoms You make me smile Algal atoms Too small to see But for my eye Peering microscopically Your fiddly frames Of filigree silica Seem big to me Tim  
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Dunwich

Dunwich, once second to London its bells still ring far out to sea when I was young I used to find skulls, ribs and femurs scattered down its cliffs, all now buried in my heart John
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Alive

All of a sudden, I am awake and the sea is licking round my feet. A wall of muddy grey fringed with white assaults my mind and spirit jostling me from sleep. A wave has broken. I am alive. Felix stands on the sea’s edge; hardly a split second’s pause before he is stumbling forward, fearless into the waves, embracing the ocean, saying yes, yes I will, yes to his new friend. I have been sleep-walking, a spectator, unable to grasp this new role, the forgotten skills of grand-parenting lost in the wreckage that is Covid. Standing bemused in playgrounds, waiting for the light to dawn. Suddenly, I am woken by the waves, remembering what life consists of, remembering how to say yes, remembering how to say no, remembering what makes me who I am. Child of the sea. Julia Duke
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