Tag: whimsy
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The Endless Months
The morning arrived without a bell or an alarm,just the sun cutting through the curtains,and the sudden, heavy realisationthat tomorrow belonged to you, too. Weeks stretched out like a foreign continent,uncharted, unhurried,with no destination greater than the end of the laneor the cool, dark space beneath the old tree. Time lost its sharp edges.It became…
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August Holds Its Breath
By August, the hills have settledinto their deep greens and purples,heather thickening across the slopeslike a slow‑gathering bruise.The air holds a warm hush,not heat exactly,just a softness that makes you pauseon the path a little longer. The mornings carry a cool warning,a hint that the year is just about startingto think about turning.Light still stretches…
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The Thread
A single thread has started to unwindAlong the cuff of an old woolen sleeve.A quiet looseness of a simple kind,That leaves no heavy heart behind to grieve. It pulls apart so slowly, stitch by stitch,A gentle letting go of what was tight.No longer holding to a complex pitch,Just softly coming undone in the light.
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July Tries Its Luck
July wanders in with a swagger. It’s heard rumoursabout what summer should beand is determined to give it a go,even if the clouds have other plans.The mornings start bright enoughto make you hopeful,then dim just slightly,like someone turning the dialto see how much you will tolerate. The air grows thicker,not hot exactly,but warm in a…
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Foxes, Seagulls, and Other Street Prophets
I walked past the takeaway and a man was chanting at a seagull like they had unfinished business. A bus hissed, a fox trotted through the queue like it owned the franchise, and for a moment the whole street felt beautifully unhinged. I didn’t find meaning. I didn’t need to. Sometimes the world just wobbles…
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Puddle, Late Afternoon
She was ahead of me on the pavement, blazer slipping, bag thumping against her hip in a way that suggested the day had not been kind. The puddle wasn’t remarkable; a shallow spread of rainwater collecting whatever the street had dropped into it. It gave her pause as she considered it with the seriousness of…
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June, in a Country that Doesn’t Quite Trust Summer
June arrives without asking,a pale stretch of morningthat starts before you’re ready.The light gets up early here,nosy and persistent,peering through the curtainsas if to check you’re still alive. The days go long and lanky,hours spilling everywhere,refusing to end at a sensible time.The air warms, sort of,in that half‑hearted Scottish way;soft enough for a T‑shirt,cold enough…
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The Wind that Followed Me Home
A small wind followed me home today.Not a storm,not even a breeze;just a curious little draftwith leaves in its hairand the smell of faraway hillsclinging to its coat. It tugged at my sleevelike a child wanting attention,nudging me toward puddles,toward dandelions,toward things I’d forgottenwere worth noticing. When I boiled the kettle,it sat on the counterand…
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The Winding Song
A clockwork bird with rusted wings,Decided it would try to sing.Not for the gears, or the winding key,But just to know what it’s like to be. It didn’t chirp of gold or grain,But whistled softly of the rain,And found that even a heart of tin,Can hold a world of wonder in.
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Maybe May
By May, the world has stopped pretendingit’s still waking up.Everything is suddenly louder;the grass, the light,even the shadows seem more certainof where they belong. The days stretch themselves thin,testing how far they can reachbefore the sky snaps back.Blossom gathers in cornerslike someone sweeping beautyinto careless piles. And you feel it tug at you;that quiet insistenceto…