Author Archives: melanie

Bare thread

A delicate thread hangs in the air
Catching the light of sunset fair
A rainbow of colour and hue
Finding a swaying bloom of blue
A line of shimmering light and shine
Draped among the rambling vine
A finely crafted work of art
Slowly woven from the start
Then winding around stalky post
While taking shape unique to host
As most walk past unobservant
Not for us the wildlife fervent.

Magpies and molehills

I was soaring, flying, floating as a balloon, flying high in the sky, as a loud, chattering magpie with stiff wings of feather soft clouds on the winds of life until I started to fall, fall, fall…

I lost a feather, then two or three, a damaged, wounded bird in the swirling mass of fog that enveloped my failing eyes, squinting, battling, wading through, but falling, falling, falling…

I dropped like a stone, like hail to the ground, swallowed up in a molehill, a dark, dank, earth filled hole, down, down, into the never ending soil, sticking to me, making me sink, sink, sink…

I was embedded in the sweet, dark, moist soil, cocooned, entombed, hung in stasis with leaf litter, worms and those like me, that didn’t belong anywhere but were sinking, sinking, sinking…

I couldn’t escape, I didn’t try either, I lay and wept with desperate, quiet tears, as everything was as it always had been but then a glimmer, a light, a hand of hope, hope, hope…

The washing line

The washing curls, furls, winds around the line in the wind,
Making strange shapes as the cool breath shakes the line of sheets, towels and briefs.
Birdsong cuts through the gusty waves of onslaught as I try in vain to get pegs to wet cloth, the sound of breaking plastic proving my point.
Then a shaft of sunlight breaking through the clouds and wind brings hope that the washing will dry outside and more to the point, stay on the line!

The Magpie

Smart monochrome uniform
With ruffled pant legs
Strutting, swaggering
He takes, not begs!

Like the Artful Dodger
He picks out the weak
With sharp, beady eye
And strong, black beak!

He cackles, he crackles
With ear splitting noise
The sound of a witch
In the dead of night, poised!

A harbinger of doom and dread
A portend of evil
He scavengers on death
And dines on the feeble!

But up close he’s beautiful
Like a peacock in flight
His iridescent feathers
Are an awesome sight!

His strutting is his confidence
His cackling his song
He’s not like the other birds
He’s different, not wrong!

He is as God intended
He’s doing as he’s meant
A magpie is a magpie
For he is heaven sent!

Canvas of life

On the infinite canvas paints the finger of life, the paintbrush of possibilities, the wielding of the world in the heavens, the pallet of colours, unlike any others, carefully, precisely, artistically, woven through time, through ages of weather worn, wonderful aeons, that groan and moan, under strains and stresses, birth pains, travails, is this the end? No! Birth pains are bringing forth life anew, a new beginning from the beautiful old, into something different, something fresh, something crisp and clean and dazzling bright, like the stars of heaven in the darkness of night.

Dystopian Days

A tale of dystopian living
Society divided, a rift
One side hating the other
While the anthem plays in shifts.

This cautionary tale of dystopia
This mask, distance, jab
One side against the other
While those in charge grab.

Are we asleep or awake now?
Are we living in meta, VR?
Are we okay with the reset?
Is one world order where we are?

Do you want a chip in your hand?
Is it just easier that way?
Will you give up your freedom for convenience?
Or will you kneel with me and pray?