Poetry | Stories | Photography
A dark room,
the smell of roses and
breathing from the bed.
Alone and waiting,
wanting to touch;
quickening from the bed.
A touch in the dark,
the room melts away and
so do the sheets, clothes.
A play of shadows;
moonlight from the skylight,
ecstasy in the dark.
Walking amongst your favourite trees,
contemplating the ways of the forest, wild roses.
A softness has come to your soul recently,
so you take a moment to reflect, scheme a little.
Whispers from your Mother remind you of her,
even though she is not with you physically, whole.
A series of thoughts move your reflective mind,
so fast; you take a moment to catch up, process.
With no gesture, you turn a tree into a table,
then you turn another tree into a dishwasher, combo.
A wildness has come to the forest from the
commotion you created as you began experimenting, changing.
Wild consequences won’t be served up to
you, as you gave like for like to change the trees, a plant or two.
Another reflection leaves you startled as
a Cockatoo makes a racket, a Koala turns from you; it’s quiet.
No one visits,
no visitors visit
her home.
More witch than woman,
they say
something like that.
Living alone stirs rumours,
tales become more,
soon blood may flow.
A beauty, despite the time.
She refuses to brush her hair,
many curls, a bird appears.
Black eyes know the
way to and from this
world to the next.
The chimney sends smoke
puffing thick, into the
atmosphere.
Careful, the leaves
no trace of who
she once was.
Only what is needed,
she takes from her home,
the place loved so well.
Moving on, she sets her
home alight, so no one
will find what she felt.
Hearing a burning place.
The moor is hidden,
not a living soul around.
Gone before the judgement
police come knocking,
and kill her with stones.
