Category: Writing
Shooting Stars
Time to fall from shadows.
Masks guard the plain.
The Autumn of burning Souls.
Bright white they shine, illuminating hope.
They dance together. Intertwining arms link in molten joy.
Together their light stave’s off the darkness.
A brilliant radiance of purity. Beacon of enlightenment.
Together they dance.
As dusk comes to meet the night.
The Beach House
Soft whispers linger,
on his frozen lips.
White line of sand smells sweet.
His weapons lie across the floor, disarmed,
still deadly.
Silently he beckons on.
Smooth skin,
rough cloth cut short.
I thought I’d learned his inner soul.
But now I think, I’ll never know.
Frozen World
Frozen beneath the ground lies the clock.
She ticks on quietly, keeping pace with the wind.
Her heart is a finely tunes engines made long ago.
On each hour she sings to the icy sky.
Her melody sounds against the ice,
trapped within a sleeping world.
On will she tick, till her gears rust,
on will she hum till her bells crack,
on will she dream till she floats away.
For the pond has need of a lullaby.
Old Man Winter
When gazing at a snowflake,
falling in the field,
listen softly to the wind.
“Love is all around.” He sings.
His voice is the rustle of branches.
His drum, the silent falling of snow.
Look onward gently.
Across the frozen ground he dances.
His form, the swaying of trees.
His steps, the moonlight on their branches.
Fairie Paths
Secret paths covered with snow
create a web of silver yarn.
Connected thus.
Heart tied to heart.
Neighbour tied to neighbour.
Friend tied to friend.
Along the paths the fairies dance,
spreading love in their footsteps.
Spreading thus.
Heart to heart.
Neighbour to neighbour.
Friend to friend.
The Fairie’s Holiday
Humming along the path they skip,
little feet pit a pat in the snow.
A musical procession though the trees.
The trees a’glow with fairie light,
illuminating the little dancing folk.
At dawn they will fade.
But for tonight they dance.
Dance, in the newly fallen snow.
Assimilation Shall Impress
It is morning and the sound of Mr Fritz’s voice is muffled by the haze sleep which hovers over the heads of my fellow seventh graders. Large letters appear on the board in a tilted cursive script which appears to me more like a yellow chalk coloured blotch scrawled across the blackboard. It is morning and my head is like the bear; full of fluff.
A piece of rolled up sheet music hits me in the nape of my neck, breaking me out of the monotony of the daily morning routine. Seeing the page, I know instantly which of my classmates is responsible. It is covered with sketches of cars, tanks and uniformed men with overly large heads.
As I turn around, the face of the culprit greets me from across the room. Aden’s round short-haired face is beaming and he leans across his desk.
“Can you believe we have to read this?” he says waving a small purple book with his left hand.
Sylvan Secrets 