I did a bit of creative writing recently, and to try and make it feel less awkward I described them as word sketches. I find this idea really liberating, as the pieces can be rough and unfinished and undisciplined and mis-formed, with no need to redraft or finesse. Which is very much my thing. And so here are some more:
The Wind Speaks
When the Wind speaks, it speaks to me
Of storm clouds breaking over wave whipped rocks,
Of millside willows weaving in the breeze,
Of a girl whose hair is waving on the mountainside,
And she tucks it behind her ear and smiles into the sun.
When the wind sings, it sings to me
Of the sweet smell of a winter turf fire,
Of the splashing of the river full of children,
Of the girl who could not be carried on the wind,
But was planted in the earth of another world.
The Old Priests
In the trembling light
On the cliff tops ruffling,
The old priests gather,
Long beaked and feathered in dirt,
Stalking through the diamond breeze,
Proclaiming the morning.
Beneath The Moon
Beneath the moon they struck her head
And left her there where she was dead
And no one knows where her blood flows
Where she feeds the worms and feeds the crows.
Beneath the moon the earth runs red
In the woods where that child lies dead
Where she feeds the worms and feeds the crows,
The moon passed on but no sun rose.
Beneath the midday firmament
Endless night now permanent
Darkness like a sail unfurled
On a sea of grief across the world
Beneath the darkness all were afraid
And the killers returned to where the child was laid
And they begged to her ghost to bring back the sun
But the child was silent, for the sin was done
Beneath the darkness they wailed and they wept
And the pain of their crime in their hearts they kept
And until they were old they held onto that pain
And after they perished the sun rose again
Beneath the sun the children do play
Their laughter is full of the joys of the day
In the night you may hear the murderers’ moans
But peace reigns in the glade of that poor child’s bones.
Wolf in the Night
In the night
murmurs of suckling air
and gasping lips
and little secret breathing in the dark
The hour of the shuffling wolf
The weight of a snuffling bundle
The warmth against my chest
The stretching of clasping limbs
And outside, the winter rains
Tickle at the windows like the fingers of
Jealous old witches
City By the Sea
The sea roils in the air, the sky rolls through the streets
And I cannot see beyond my feet.
Smeared lights and the shadows of sleek ocean monsters
slithering in the waters over my head
And the sounds echo through the watery world,
The laughter of gulls here and the roar of engines here and the crackle of strange people here.
To illustrate these scratchy word ramblings here are some photos of trees that I took that I quite like but can’t think where else to use them!