I’ve taken to writing poems to take to the writing group I am part of, Solitary Writers.

The group is held once a month; they are some of the loveliest and most talented people who meet to share their ideas. I always feel inspired by their writing. They are a diverse group, some already published, many more who should be. There are artists and musicians and geniuses, and it’s a pleasure to be there amongst them.

They write moving poems, clever poems, exciting short stories, evocative descriptions, poignant novels. I can’t praise them enough, as writers or as people. We read our work in turn, then we share our thoughts and excouragement.

I always try to contribute something when I’m there.Sometimes I read from one of my novels, but that feels a bit of a cop-out as they’re already written, and so I try to offer something new.

I’m usually busy writing, editing, often both, but I can’t use that as an excuse for not comtributing something. So I write poems because mistakenly I think it’s a quicker option – if I write a poem, then there will be less words than in a short story or a descriptive piece , and it will take me less time.

Who am I kidding?

Andyway, here’s a poem I’ve written. It’s short and simple, and it comes from a place where I’m inspired by other members of the group who write about myths, nature and fantasy.

A big thank you to them all for the fun and learning and inspiration we share once a month.

xx

The Circle

It is the time between dusk and daybreak when Earth holds her breath.

Stars are holes in night’s blanket.

An old man makes his journey, a last painful shuffling

Each pace the fire of nettles in his toes:

He plods on.

His yellow dough skin hangs from his jaw

His eyes cloud with the slime of blindness.

There is a cottage, a shadow in the forest.

 Smoke beckons a curling finger.

He pounds the door one time.

Inside a woman turns sharply

The door opens and he falls, a bundle of bones and rags, into her strong arms.

She heaves him close to the dancing flames

Lifts him to her lap and rocks him there.

He is skeletal light, fragile as faith.

She feels his jagged breath shudder in, out, in

And whispers like a mother.

Beneath her fingers he is a broken bird.

Hour after hour she whispers.

As light creeps, the old man is a youth, strong limbed, tall as a tree.

The dawn lifts her face to the sky, hours pass.

He is a child again, smiling sweet.

His laugh lifts him bubble light to the air.

He is sunshine

 He warms the body of the Earth until she softens.