I took a bath in chilled champagne
Bubbles pop across heated skin
I emerge from a hole hewn into ice
Granddad’s job earlier that day
The milky layer with sharp edges
Thicker than my hand is wide
Promises joy and death
I pull myself up the wrought iron steps
Bare feet rush in wet pitter-patter
Across icy ground to reach my soft robe
The sound of heat radiates from fluffy fibres
Scent of pine resin caresses me
As we walk chattering back to the house
And the fiery embrace of the sauna
Tag: poem
Wee Beastie
A wee beastie, fluffy coat without buttons,
satellite dish ears orienting.
Micro kangaroo hops
across moss covered brick.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
The wee beastie watches
black button eyes anticipatory.
Feathered waiter has opened the buffet.
His yellow coat and blue bib
draw our attention.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
Sunflower seeds.
The menu is a bit simple.
Tablecloth covered in debris
from the last rain.
A random leaf dances past
–just because.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
One seed thrown aground and another,
two seeds down the beak.
A feather sticks.
Wet leaves cling to French doors.
Wee beastie happily munches.
tiny fingers hold treasure.
‘That’s how it’s done.’
The airborne pal tells us.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
Three Hazelnuts
or Cinderella
Seriously, Cindy. You pine
for a man who doesn’t recognise you
when you wear a different dress!?
Shallow much, your beau?
His horse is smarter!
Taking the apple from a trusted hand
when you meet in the snow-covered woods.
You can do better Cindy!
Hear me out.
I know your sisters are pests.
And stepmother gives all of us a bad rep,
but you really don’t have to go for the guy!
The one who needs a glass slipper to know you!
The three Hazel nuts!
You could wish for start-up funding,
or a scholarship,
or a train ticket
out of town to somewhere far away.
Excuse my anachronisms.
And make your own family
with people who ken
even when you walk in the dark.
Wintering
When cold clings to your bones with painful fingers.
You go for a lunch-walk to watch the sun set.
The clouds shroud so heavily you can’t tell if it is day yet.
Dark tendrils enclose your space; the ceiling light fights a battle lost.
The steam from your soup bowl fogs your vision.
Hard rimmed bread softened in salty broth.
A warm hug and friend’s presence brighten the grey day.
There is no such thing as too many blankets.
Wrapped up like porcelain dolls ready for shipping.
Only noses and eyes emerge; clouds of breath hang over our heads.
Laughs muffled by thick scarves.
Our steps crunch on frozen ground, or kick bursts of snow into the air.
We enter the house with much exclamation, and stomping of cold feet,
Rubbing numb hands, and shaking off frost, as if we were still fur-covered beasts.
Warm blankets snug around the body, lest any air touches shivering skin.
Book in hand, a hot cuppa, and a candle the night may fall now—again.
I collected a poem*
Bullfinches, like plush berries,
Huddled decorativly on baren trees.
December has snug through the door
Under the guise of November gray.
Heavy pillows full of pending snow
Linger below the blue ceiling.
I am entering stasis, space in between,
Before the sun is reborn.
Watching the days grow ever shorter.
Everyone is holding a long breath.
Mallards hide their bills underneath warm feathers.
Heron amongst silver reeds,
alternates the leg submerged in cold water.
Even jaybird flies past without a warning call.
Kingfisher the only one who can’t stop the busy bustle.
Cold wind nips my face,
Blowing away remnants of gossamer.
Moss makes pompoms along elder branches.
Redwing and blackbird beaks full of red baubles.
Everything is Christmas coloured right now.
*During a lunchtime walk before the lurgy struck. I literally wrote each line as I observed.
Stray Cats
Midnight street
The sheen of rain on cobble stones
Black fur bristling
Tails are agitated bottle brushes
Careful circling round and round
Avoiding eye contact
But never loosing sight of one another
Neither knows
If the other one is save to be around
Who approaches first?
Saturday Morning
The crows caw
Smell of roses
Monet
Walzing memories
A puppy and a stick
J bringing my bike out of the garage
Spring Equinox
unedited free writing for spring
12 hours
twelve hours of light
twelve hours of darkness
yet the planets align
beauty to harness
Writing
silly little rhymes flow from my pen
words phrases punctuation
I hoard like a poetic dragon
in my soul they grow entwined
syllabic stew bubbles in my mind
to spill out in no discernible order
rhyming sometimes or I don’t bother
it’s spring and everything tumbles
stumbles, bursts into being
my words urge and urge forward
just don’t you stop they are screaming
so I am beholden to the pen
to write until the very end
Life!
life stumbles into being with ostentatious urgency
spears of green impale last winter’s brown leaves
purple blossoms stand askew amongst yellow
death from last year barely covered by sap green growth
a longtail tit almost smacks into my head
single minded focus on nesting mating food
flight an afterthought of being
while I look on enviously
coltsfoot, lesser celandine, ****crocus, winter aconites
daffodils, dandelion leaves, hawthorn buds,
cowslip tenderly peek out from mud
first sight might betray you that first day of spring
amongst the brownish, greyish, greenish darks
second sight notices sparkling glitz
third sight confirms the colour explosion has rizz
Social media observation
I am a woman
I can be sad and happy
Have a PhD and change car tires
Dig garden beds and glam up
Write poetry and mountainbike
Cuddle in your strong arms
And hold you when you are sad
Make art and binge watch Netflix
Roll up with a book and hike in a snowstorm
Most people online yell at one another
Because they have forgotten that many things can hold true at once
Because they have adapted their personality to the tiny box on the screen
Just don’t be too much, too faceted, too colourful
Lest the algorithms silence you for not fitting into a tiny box
Old man on a dune, Durness
Knarled legs with pronounced sinews.
Remind me of the ancient hawthorn
at the Roman fort.
Swollen knees akin to burls bend as we sit companionably next to one another.
We watch the boys in their kayaks.
Fishing for pollock far out in the bay.
The third one on the look out is the great seal.
Wondering who mucks about with his dinner.
The old man was up from Yorkshire
I believe
Always loved hiking but he has to use the poles now.
‘My knees, you know? I need to take them now.’
I show him my Nordic Walking poles. ‘Family history.’ I add.
We both nodd in understanding and watch the seal pop up.
Curriously trailing the boys in their kayaks.
We laugh.
Someone is worried about their dinner.
The summer sun warms our skin.
Marram grass almost silver in the bright light.
Diamond sparkles on ripples in the sea.
He tells me about his family. The call of sea birds.
Poetry by Nathalie 