January’s Small Stones #4

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!


20th Jan
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.


21st Jan
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.


22nd Jan
No small stone today.


23rd Jan
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.


24th Jan
Black lacquered pavement glows in disco orange light,
Dance floor for the rain drops that bounce and bop and shine.


25th Jan
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?


26th Jan
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’.


28th Jan
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.


29th Jan
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.


30th Jan
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.


31st Jan

Snowdrops stand in a line
A choir of school children, hunched and weaving
Making their way through their new, spring song.


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All written materials and images, unless otherwise stated, are property of Kelly Tomlin 2016.
We gather together to Walk the Wheel; to share with one another and be inspired.