My Stolen Spring My eyes are not designed for Summer days, especially those come two months too soon for ’tis unfair that April sun should blaze with glare you’d think polite to save till June. I’d be indignant made at how this heat impetuously now infects my skin if I weren’t left too drowsy in my seat by weariness the warmth is wont to spin. Soft-breaking light and breeze are Spring’s domain, a season meek, defined by gentle glow Continue reading “#NaPoWriMo2019 – Day 21: ‘My Stolen Spring’”→
Bank Holiday Friday There are too many people out today because the weather’s far too nice. Now don’t tell me I’m a grump to say there’s too many people out today; sunny bank holidays are a curse that way, leaving coastal towns packed tight as packet rice. There are too many people out today because the weather’s far too nice.
Same Old Same Old The days now eat each other, regurgitating on a loop; declining cycles of hours recycled, yet lived just as listless. Time enough to see the patterns, and learn the turns, and break out soon.
Yet Another Cuppa I am warmed, all of a sudden full of heat and an every-corner-reaching comfort. For a minute or so I am evaporated from the day’s concerns as relaxation trickles into me and takes me somewhere nicer than the world I’ve been sitting in as sedentary sentinel to my own wasting of a daylight I can’t seem to make the most of. Worries make a chill wind in your gut and your stomach, but a simple sipping can Continue reading “#NaPoWriMo2019 – Day 14: ‘Yet Another Cuppa’”→
Bestie Days How both of us miss those meandering days where nothing much mattered. When we were both about twenty, in our first year of uni (cus we’d both gone a year late). When we lived in the same halls, across the courtyard from each other, and had all the same seminars so would walk to them most mornings (if I hadn’t risen just a bit late for your liking) together, talking, teasing, and complaining about all sorts of shit that sounds ridiculous Continue reading “#NaPoWriMo2019 – Day 13: ‘Bestie Days’”→
Bluebells Those blue bells chime with solemn honesty while bluebells hug the bottoms of the trees and, with so snug a carpet, comfort bring while all the while that candid ding-dong rings. For there’s no sound shall tell me straighter truths, or sight so silly as these pretty blooms.