It brushed my arm, lightly caressing as it winged lazily flapping by me, bright blue amongst the long green grasses of the overgrown verges. — My eyes followed its gentle passage, none but me to see its fair fluttering, resting so sensitively on each sweet, nectar filled flower in the hedgerow. —- Camera at the… Continue reading Butterfly Memory
Month: May 2023
The Shy Bluetit
The darting cobalt blue, streak of yellow gold swiftly passes snatching tasty seed then – flees to hide, green amongst the laurel leaves which tremble and close in its wake. —– Peeping out eye bright, he fixes upon a nutty gem. The seething bush releasing a wild friend, who like a salmon leaping over a… Continue reading The Shy Bluetit
Fraud hurts.
It seemed innocent in my in box, from a friend, someone I knew, some photos, or a link to them and I stupidly thought, ‘How Kind!’ = I pressed the link and felt so bad as others told me I had been had, a virus poisoning my little iPad and others around that I loved… Continue reading Fraud hurts.
Echoes in Faith
It is in the silence that he is usually there, in the angel music he will ordinarily speak, but like many who wander and wonder there is an emptiness and disconnection. = Shadows of shapes where he used to be and a faint echo that which led to stability, a heavy heart hangs low, he… Continue reading Echoes in Faith
Pentecost
The silence echoed in the crowded room, each person bent on praying, living, hoping, and grieving his loss, his touch, his smile, the room too small for his shortened life. — The air outside warming as the day begins, their celebrations quietened, occluded by a cross, an empty grave, a hill top, angels and heavy… Continue reading Pentecost
The Last Supper
Tables overwhelmed with flavours and smells Of ritual foods, Bitter herbs and unleavened bread, Hard eggs and sacrificial lamb, Wine poured ready for joy as the recitation pours out of shared history and hope. —— Mary waits to light candles and pray but finds him kneeling, water to show them, the way. He washes her… Continue reading The Last Supper
Seagulls
She landed heavily on the lawn, yellow beaked with bright red spot for a Pavlov response in their tiny brood of ever hungry chicks, grabs and fights and fusses over a few crumbs, flapping noisily those strong wings, holding her muscled body ready to fly off in an instant should cat or dog or gardening… Continue reading Seagulls
War is Death.
Appalled and angry he stares after the lifting fuselage. By his side his children sit in the dirt, with the whiff of kerosene in their nostrils and their weeping mother trying to make sense of the inexplicable losses. —— Firing weapons raise smoke to sun kissed skies, now nowhere will be safe from their anger… Continue reading War is Death.