poetry

Wild Coppice

these woods hold secrets none behold
away from roads and trodden paths
behind each blade of grass untold
a history of forgotten pasts

each step forward leads me back
to times before the wheel or cart
a verdant womb below their tracks
lulled from sleep by primeval hearts

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Silver Nitrate : a short fiction as prose.

He dared not sleep
for when he closed his eyes
the dream found him again
looking through old things
in a far too small antique shoppe
where eyes like owls
watched his every move
and in doing so
guided his attention
to a stack of old photographs
from a century before
in which he himself featured
over and over again
suffering terrible deaths.

he’d rush outside each time
panic wet on his face
and everyone around him
would be carrying a camera.

Fred The Barman’s Night Off : a short (almost) fiction as prose

Like David Niven
he was sometimes given
to telling a tale or two
and had a bucket
filled with anecdotes
he would empty over you
a regular tattling
chattering raconteur
of the very special kind
that sadly are no more
but he never sat on TV
or made his point across the air
he just sat on Tuesdays (mostly)
in the corner snug
nursing his whiskey
and mumbled on
to anyone who cared