Very soon there will be a new anthology heading your way (if you fancy this kind of thing). Tick Tock is an assemblage of stories and poetry by Wirral Writers, with a variety of genres from sci-fi to fantasy, fiction to poetry. Not usually given to writing poetry (as those of you who follow regularly know), I was working on my allotment plot one day and was visited by my resident blackbird, I crouched down on the path and watched him for a while; before the stirrings of some lines and I had to go home and write. It took me as long to write this as it does to write a 1,000-3,000 word story.
Poetry is, I believe, the Tai Chi of the writing world – it looks short and simple, but it really isn’t; it has subtlety and nuances that stories do not need because there is more time to get your point across. Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, (what is iambic pentameter even?! )
So, anyhoo, I decided to post my small offering here, as a taster, an hors d’oeuvre if you will, of the forthcoming book. I hope you like it:
In the tree when I arrive,
A lively, musical trill from winding greenery and bee busy trees,
Watching as I clear and rake, weed and prune.
Tipsy flower tops brush dust along my arms as I pass back and forth.
And in he quick hops, head tilts, raven-ous. With his golden spear he stabs and gathers
Wormlings from the wetted leaves.
On the wood-chip path I squat like a child.
I cannot see that dark omen they say you are, robed in black
Secrets carrying messages on wings fleeting, flashing, slicing air.
And between the foraging and bolting greens I catch his ebon eye and see myself there reflected,
I see my raked youth.
I am earthed-up.
Green I was and grey I am,
I have hopped and tilted at life
Gathering less than he.
This ant-thronged earth has irritated my senses, and while I itched,
Time has leapt beyond my grasp.
We are; he, and me