This is an idea that is doing the rounds on Facebook at the moment and I thought I'd make the same offer here.
I promise to send something I make myself to the first 5 people who leave a comment on this post. In turn, you promise to make the same offer on your blog. The rules are that you need to make the items personally and send them to your 5 folks within 2011.
I'm likely to send you one of the following: pot pourri bag; miniature book of haiku or a framed poetry collage.
Monday, 10 January 2011
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Mouse carries stone
the mouse scuttles into view, runs away as I shriek, comes back again, retreats as I move, then back again to pick up the crumb of bread.
for A River of Stones
for A River of Stones
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Another day, another river
an otter porpoises round a rock in the middle of the river
along the Water of Leith
(this is only the second time we've ever seen an otter! It played in front of us for several minutes!)
for A River of Stones
along the Water of Leith
(this is only the second time we've ever seen an otter! It played in front of us for several minutes!)
for A River of Stones
Friday, 7 January 2011
Down by the River
broken sea-shells scattered on frosty grass
*
gulls float on the water, which ripples beneath them in lilac and turquoise
*
Where the old school was demolished is now an empty field, part frozen over. Gulls and a curlew gather round the ice.
*
snow on the hills across the river, an oystercatcher's piping call
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Once was Forest
This island used to be forest.
"When I was a girl" said my grandmother, "I used to get lost in the trees when I was visiting friends. But never when I was grown up, there just weren't enough trees to get lost in".
When I was young there were still a few groups of trees on the island. Some were big enough that if you tried very hard you could imagine trees stretching out in all directions to meet the see. You did need to try very hard though.
I made a den in one of the trees. I liked to sit there quietly and listen to the birds. Yes there were birds here when I was very young.
The other children thought I was strange, sitting in the trees, watching birds. They all just wanted to fight each other or throw stones at the goats or daydream about escaping across the sea to strange new lands.
My mother loved the trees too but "some things just pass away" she said, "and trees are just one of those things".
My father sharpened his axe as she said this and kept quiet. He rarely met my eye.
It's years since I visited the part of the island where I had my treehouse. I can't bear to see the empty plain that it has become.
The island is so dusty these days. There's always a hot dry wind that catches up the red dust and throws it into our eyes.
Today everyone is gathered round the tree at the top of the highest hill. I tried to stop my brother going out to chop down this last tree, but he pushed me aside. I'm glad my mother and grandmother are no longer around to hear the steady chopping that seems to echo across the island.
There's a huge crash then silence before what sounds like a muffled cheer. I sit motionless on my chair and watch the sun set, red as blood into the sea.
"When I was a girl" said my grandmother, "I used to get lost in the trees when I was visiting friends. But never when I was grown up, there just weren't enough trees to get lost in".
When I was young there were still a few groups of trees on the island. Some were big enough that if you tried very hard you could imagine trees stretching out in all directions to meet the see. You did need to try very hard though.
I made a den in one of the trees. I liked to sit there quietly and listen to the birds. Yes there were birds here when I was very young.
The other children thought I was strange, sitting in the trees, watching birds. They all just wanted to fight each other or throw stones at the goats or daydream about escaping across the sea to strange new lands.
My mother loved the trees too but "some things just pass away" she said, "and trees are just one of those things".
My father sharpened his axe as she said this and kept quiet. He rarely met my eye.
It's years since I visited the part of the island where I had my treehouse. I can't bear to see the empty plain that it has become.
The island is so dusty these days. There's always a hot dry wind that catches up the red dust and throws it into our eyes.
Today everyone is gathered round the tree at the top of the highest hill. I tried to stop my brother going out to chop down this last tree, but he pushed me aside. I'm glad my mother and grandmother are no longer around to hear the steady chopping that seems to echo across the island.
There's a huge crash then silence before what sounds like a muffled cheer. I sit motionless on my chair and watch the sun set, red as blood into the sea.
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