It’s not the weta’s determination
to keep moving over the carpet
though the tabby hunter has left it
a little out of shape.
Nor is it the weta’s struggling hops
to the ranch slider through which
it senses the bushes of its home
where it lived till a moment ago.
It is not even the three year old’s
excited exclamations while watching
the weta’s struggles to get away
from the tabby hunter.
This courageous creature
must inspire us as it
battles its handicaps
to escape its giant prison
to return to its own world
where its kind have survived
for thousands of years.
A weta is similar in size and shape to a cricket, though the two are unrelated.
In comfortable armchairs
my friend and I enjoy
her cool shady living room
on a hot sunny afternoon
leisurely chatting, sipping tea.
A grinding roar deafens us.
A giant foot kicks
the back of my chair
I turn but see no one.
The furniture rocks and sways
the floor undulates
like waves at sea.
What is deafening us ?
My friend rushes to the doorway
leans against the Jamb.
I stare at her,
realise an earthquake
is rocking the house.
I run to the other jamb.
The doorway and floor move freely
as if fixed to nothing,
the roaring grinds on.
It lasts for fifteen seconds
on an epicentre 36 kilometres away.
A builder checked my friend’s chimney,
said the old mortar was no longer
holding its bricks together.
She had it dismantled.
Another little viewed early post from 9 December 2015.
On sports day
the five and six year olds
run their own long distance
races around the school
On their last lap
teachers and parents
stand by the finish line
with clipboards and stopwatches.
The six year olds’ teacher
is so proud of their running times
called out by parent helpers
as her charges hurtle puffing,
red faced, across the finish line.
After filling spaces beside
names on her chart she still
has two blank spaces.
She scans the field and sees
two little figures in the the shade
of tall trees, sends an older child
to urge them to finish their race.
The daisies there were very big,
good for daisy chains, they
explain to their teacher.
Someone else would pick them
if they didn’t.
They are puzzled when their teacher
says they should have waited
until after the sports.
She liked their daisy chains yesterday
…… but not today.
To the fairies who live in the bushes along the fence by the living room.
Last week you did not answer my letter until two nights later ! So I will just tell you again that your letterbox is behind the chair in the corner of the living room near the ranch slider. I made it out of lego and you can see it easily.
i have started school now and I like writing letters. Claire wants to write letters too, but she is not at school yet. Mummy writes her letters for her. I copy my letters after Mummy writes what I want to say.
Today after school I found some fairies but Mummy says they are clematis seeds blowing in the wind. I still think they look like fairies. I have put one in your letterbox. Please would you turn it into a real fairy ? And make it not afraid of me ?
I know which is your special trees. Our black and white cat fell out of it when he was a kitten. He is much better at climbing now.
Please answer my letter soon.
I an Chloe’s sister.
Pudding Lane, Bow Church, All Saints,
Poplar. The overhead railway runs
high above long lanes of commuter traffic
flashing trails of red tail lights,
white headlights, in the dark morning.
Ancient names overarching modern machines.
Heron Quays, West India Quay, Canary Wharf.
We glide from small station shelters
into a vast overhead dome
to change trains amongst milling throngs
rushing to work in glass cased offices.
West India Dock, Coldharbour, Mudchute
appear as daylight grows.
Another day, off to work again
in futuristic transport
yet a little out of this world
as I pass names established
so long ago, recurring still
in history books.
and present day news.
Another of my early posts when I was still building up views and likes.
Originally posted 6 December 2015.
On Sunday morning the first
awareness of the day drifts
through the sleeper’s mind as
she turns on her side. Very
faint light shows through the
heavy curtains as she opens
her eyes slightly – too much –
she closes them again.
Luxuriating in the comfortable
warmth she sinks down into
restful blissful unconsciousness.
Blessed silence continues.
Bare feet pound into the room
in three year old consternation.
Shocked tones announce
“The moon has gone away !
– The stars have gone away !
– The sun is shining ! And
no one is getting up !”
The sleeper is jolted awake.
A vast heap beside her groans,
stirs, a gravelly voice rumbles
that all is fine, the three year
old should go back to bed.
Little bare feet trail slowly away.
She hasn’t woken her sister, that
is hard to do. Which leaves her
looking at picture books
with Alfred Bear in bed.