If you’re looking for my Grow Your Blog 2014 post, go here
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This is the final installment of January’s Small Stones, covering the last two weeks. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading them as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them 🙂 Look out for more in 2014!
This smoke doesn’t hang in the air.
It is off the hook, out of the wardrobe and dressing the air around it,
In a white shift of sweet smelling scent;
The ghostly shadow of burnt incense.
Dead roots cast aside in a desiccated clump.
Clinging together in a final embrace.
Their passion so fierce and determined,
So strong it must be warm at their centre;
Where new lives can sleep and grow and fester.
No small stone today.
It is as if each pip of hail that lands, realises on impact that is has managed to miss the designated landing spot.
And so, before it melts into nothingness, it must make a mad dash – skitter, skatter – towards its intended resting place.
Black lacquered pavement glows in disco orange light,
Dance floor for the rain drops that bounce and bop and shine.
It is tired of hanging there, in defiance of the natural order,
Hiding the wounds and battle scars of a fight with apathy.
Perhaps because a net curtain belongs beside a window,
Maybe it misses the fresh air, the morning sunshine, the view?
Funny how the wind through bare trees seems to wave the branches in a form of greeting,
And how each tree’s wave is distinctive, as each person’s is also.
The delicate, regal birch,
The eager, energetic oak;
All stir from their Winter slumber to say ‘Hello’.
Inhale the scent of bark and crumbly soil,
The citrus rush of wind fallen fruits,
A comforting wreath of steam rises;
This cup of tea is just what I needed.
You flutter, air-full and fast-on that silent tree branch,
Embodying the energy of a forgotten empire.
Empty plastic bag;
Flag of the fallen,
and the wild, forgotten places.
Wood pigeon sits on bare branch,
Aged Councillor surveying his constituency,
Fluffed up fat in his Winter feathers while below him the world is still grey and cold.
But his breast tinged with the pink of approaching daylight – Hope.
Soft, silent, sentimental.
Snowdrops stand in a line
A choir of school children, hunched and weaving
Making their way through their new, spring song.