Watching the municipal verge-trimmer wreak its devastation Beneath the roof tiles, in the dark of dust and chitin-sharded debris,dig and chew a regiment of mice. In the dusty dark of ever-moonless nights,the scrabble-scratch scrapes its frantic tuneand draws down the owls from their silent star-specked flight,to snatch up wanderers, pit-pattering among the litchened moon-dapples. The roof-world is soft silence…

More and more often, I make lists, write poems, take notes as I walk, of all the things I will miss when I leave this place. We have reasons for moving on, but there are so many reasons to stay. The reasons are things that don't belong to me, don't care about me at all, but it's enough to know they are there and to see them from time to time.

Such a little thing She knew he wasn’t asleep, though she always grabbed the baby as soon as she stirred, waking at the same time. Maternal instinct. She grabbed the baby before she could cry, but she knew from the way he was hunched in the bed, as if holding in his anger, that she was too late. He was already awake.

A poem for the autumn equinox. Tipping point The gold has dipped into dark this equinoctial twilight,filling with night the broad bright bowl of the day, and the river runs slow and smooth as oil beneath the moon, black as Styx over a shining bed of stones bright as stars,to balance the molten gold of midday, the copper of evening.

The little cat is dead The light that woke me flickerswith dawn flames sieved though bird wings,and the bend and bow of rose leaves flingssmall silhouettes from day to night. Against the green-gold meadow grass,they seem a shoal of fish-dart throughthe swaying fronds of light and dark and half light. At this golden turning of the season,

Pasiphae: an incredible feminist retelling of a woman wronged by myth eBook : Dougherty, Jane: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Photo ©European Southern Observatory Robin dawn The last ship left with its huddled masses for another solar system, abandoning their planet Earth, sucked dry now and arid. When the old sun set for the last time, Earth span with no centre to hold her, span in the darkness for more lonely years, until the cold cracked her to the core, and her last sigh froze in the glacial cold.

I have been travelling these last ten days, visiting family, the new baby and a few places in Brittany. It's about time we went to live there, within sight, sound and smell of the sea. Looking for something golden and blue I was away in another worldof unfurled cloud-sails, salt wind-blown,following children flownto their own nests, child-feathered,

Une grève de deux jours a commencé dimanche à Radio France pour protester contre l'arrivée comme éditorialiste sur France Inter de Charles Sapin, un responsable du magazine Valeurs actuelles, accusé par les syndicats du groupe public de porter des idées d'extrême droite.

Dans une motion adoptée à l’unanimité, les personnels expriment leur « refus catégorique » de l’arrivée du directeur adjoint de la rédaction de « Valeurs actuelles » à l’antenne de France Inter, dont ...

Birds The child stood on tiptoe to peer through the leaded panes, breathed on a diamond and drew a smiley face in the moisture. It was cold outside and not much warmer inside. She shivered. The room was high and bare, like most of the rooms in the big old house, but this was even barer than most and tiny, much higher than it was wide.

Mea culpaThese are the ripe days of fat purple figs, when hornets and warblers feast among leaves broad as spread-fingered hands.These are the parched days of red clay in the wind, red sand in the sky, and on the horizon, the orange glow of forests burning, of choking smoke watering the eyes. On the woodland’s edge, a deer stands…

I had been going to write a post about the writing process, what inspires it and what drives the motion, but in the end, there was not much to say. We’re told that all stories are the same and have all been written over and over by countless authors, and we have taken that to mean that the most unique, worthy writing, in prose and poetry, is about the personal, about feelings.