poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
Grandparents:
A boy wrapped in a thick towel,
After playing in freezing water.
A young couple:
refusing to declare defeat
against the evening’s chill.
Two women:
Spending time in silence,
With beers.
Little girl:
Carrying sibling piggyback,
Down sandy dunes, too short legs dangling.
Elderly man alone:
Cannot get his tent set up,
Younger man walking over, helping.
There is hope,
Always hope,
Where love is.
No matter what love looks like.
I see a house through the mist
You know; the kind of house children draw
Four windows
Door in the centre
Otherwise a rectangular box
With a roof
I wonder: is life in a simple house simple?
No fuss, no add-ons, no fancy ‘wouldn’t survive the winter-storms anyway’ conservatory
Two chimney stacks on each gable-end
The smell of burning wood
Warmth that cannot dispel the slight smell of dampness
If you think about it
A house
It’s that simple, four walls
A roof, some source of warmth, water
I am sitting underneath the canape of our tent
Four walls and a roof of sorts
But we forgot the little space heater
Also our temporary abode sways with the wind
Flaps its wings
It hums a song
I heard too often
‘You cannot escape your life choices.’
But for now things are simple
The weather is merciless
Our tent howls and tries to take off like a chained dragon
The noise of the storm is incredible
A rock concert of sorts
Naughty by nature
Everything moves
Even the athletic swifts have no chance and sit exhausted on a fencepost
The guiding lines vibrate with tension
Or maybe they are shivering in the relentless rain?
Our name sign is tagged into a wooden pool
the place number long gone
36
Thousands of wild flowers dance in rhythm of the gusts
A seagull is blown past the tent
She barely manages to stabilise
Summer in Scotland
I wear my woolly hat
And socks mum knitted for me
As I take in deep breaths of salty air
And listen to the deafening production
A howl so ancient it sits at the beginning of fire and light
I want to run
Hunt
Sail
Dance
And howl at the moon, hidden.
What is ‘yellow warning rain’ anyway?
Something we never knew about.
Poetry by Nathalie 