It's Still Life

Those Weathermen The sun is like an eggy wobble,between the blown clouds, and I’ve lost my trust in weather lore,trials by sunrise colour, and those wise men, anointed, appointedweathermen, tapping away with their clicky sticks on charts andpoking into spring’s sharp peep. We still remain in winter’s hug. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter

No Stopping There’s a stop signat the end of the road, andone day I’m going to ignore it. Aim myself straight through it,like a contrite objection, an oldrusty bell that vows to chime. And I’ll be quietly steadyin the spirit of well-landed words,like bold nouns on a book’s spine that neither spell out thoughtsnor deeds,…

Down by the towpath along the creek, walking against the insect noise and twists of roots from trees that no longer exist, past the rustling thistles of last summer’s dry shadows once indefinably green against the brittle sky . . . there once was a tall wooden fence as white and straight and even as…

As Bright as Heaven’s Candle My dad alwaysleft the porch light on for me,though Mum saidit was so I didn’tstand by the front door,kissing my boyfriendand giving neighbourssomething to talk about. But I knew better.Dad didn’t careabout the neighbours;he only cared thatI came home safe,and I reckon Godkeeps a candle burning for meat heaven’s door,…

A Picnic in the Rain on Brighton Beach A weeping sunspilled down on me,no thirst have I for drink. Sodden wishesof a tented sky, blues set me on a beach. A sandwich trimmedin pretty squares,sip a cup of tea, You and me,just watched the seadrink up the spilling rain. Image from WikiArt: Picnic by the…