sparrows skim the pond
for a drink
|Friday Flash Fiction||
distant train --
sparrows skim the pond
for a drink
The monks from the forgotten friary
would be dismayed if their ghosts roam
over the pebbles of the Friary Gardens
to view litter and cigarette butts
but I prefer to admire the flowers:
a rainbow of colours, they gently sway
in the sunshine on this September day.
It's an oasis away from city streets,
hedges immaculate on the maze
as the Marquess of Bute looks on.
The bells of the City Hall ring
as I wander over to the hidden canal,
magpies perch on trees, I wish to remain
but must venture into the world again.
An old photograph of the Penarth Head Inn
taken way back in the 1860s
shows a woman in the doorway
and some men outside, all long since ghosts.
The top windows are open hinting at summer
and a figure strolls towards the inn
perhaps preparing for a night of sin.
Edwards the Smuggler enjoyed ale here,
what tales he must have told
yet now it has morphed into the Custom House
with two up-market fish restaurants
but I adore these ancient photographs
depicting life from a different age
decades before the pier...took centre stage.
I observe the moth flickering
against the night window
as it tries to reach my bedroom light.
It's white like a spectre, not realising
a little window is open yet it zooms up and down
the closed one as the cat, equally stupid,
attempts to catch it from inside.
But if the moth succeeds in gaining access
on its journey towards the light
it will probably be killed by the cat
yet lack of consciousness can be a blessing
for we fear danger where none exists,
moths and cats have no thoughts of tomorrow
ah, but we have...and that is our sorrow.
Said the ant to the flea,
you can jump higher than me;
which seems only to confirm
That all creatures on earth,
have a very different girth,
especially around the knee.
I almost ran over a peacock while driving
this morning, as he slowly crossed the street
in front of oncoming traffic, leaving illusory
images of turquoise and emerald green feathers
floating unrestrained in front of my car hood, flowing
up toward a bird heaven.
The green and blue hues of his plume were spoiled
by a splash of liquid red, a natural source of color,
gained in an unnatural way. But do not worry for all is well,
Mr. Peacock still lives on to face another day and another
unskilled attempt on his life.
Ah, that hot summer of ’76
I remember it so vividly
sunbathing in my garden
during the school holidays
before going up to university
chock-full of hopes and dreams!
Forty-two years hence
we have another such
one even hotter they say
which makes me reflect
on the vast abyss of time
between these two summers
that span my adult years.
Now, I wear a hat outside
to stave off this modern sun
which with our knowledge
of climate change and UV rays
is more dangerous these days
no longer the friend it was before.
Reminiscing about that season
of golden youth whose dreams
have never quite been fulfilled
this sun that beats down upon me
seems to burn up my very soul.
This feeling before it turns into love
The heartbeat flutters
The brow dampens
The tongue stutters
This feeling of being in love
The heart pounds
The mouth becomes dry
Imagined halos grace the air
Above lovers’ heads
This feeling of falling out of love
Words are an annoyance
Glances cause concern
Touches are avoided
Lips hold in words better left unsaid
our first kiss
made no impression --
Monet would have adored these ponds
with a rainbow of flowers waving
from the picturesque banks,
water lilies and cobalt dragon flies
swirling over the placid water
as stone musicians peer down at the scene
I imagine them playing tunes serene.
Water gently rolls along petite steps,
the sound relaxing the psyche
as ducks glide under a summer sky
belonging to a tropical land
white butterflies flickering in the soft air.
I pause for a while at this magical place,
just for now stress disappears from my face.
I grieve about those who have gone,
they haunt from time to time
aware that I ought to embrace
the balmy evening, breeze cool
after the fierce furnace of the day.
Pink roses and red berries
have faded in the dying light
and a fox scurries across the grass
as the moon begins her night shift
and clouds ghost past her full round form.
This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 100 words remains the approximate target.