Ball or Line

In the heat she stretches her paws out in front of her, lying long on her belly, her head low, chin on the bed. Her back legs extend the line of her body, stretching out behind her. How sleek she is, and black. And how relaxed. Total abandonment. 

In the cold she curls, paws and head drawn in, conserving her body warmth – a clump of darkness, rounded, almost a ball. How trusting, given up to sleep, completely safe here with me. Comfort and safety express themselves in all her resting shapes.

Of course, as soon as I bring out the camera she changes her pose – to something between  the two!

Written for Writing Ourselves Alive, week 1: Curiosity

Also an example of a prose poem for dVerse MTB Prose Poetry

From the Top Step — Autumn Dusk

I love this time of evening, when the hills opposite turn navy-blue and featureless, sharp-edged against the whitening sky. 

The feathery tree over the road dances in the light breeze. The more solid one in my yard is hardly moving; I have to look hard to see even a tiny flutter.

After the Family Visit

Her son gives her a last firm, fierce hug before getting in the car.  She goes up the steps and waves them goodbye from her front door — just as her mother, and before that her grandmother, always did.

They drive away. She goes inside, collects the bundled sheets and towels they used, drops them in the washing machine and turns it on. Then she remakes the beds.

It’s a nice hot, breezy drying day.  She hangs the linen on the line.  She’ll bring it all in dry in a couple of hours.

Time now to catch up with emails and facebook, before getting dinner for herself and her cat and settling in for the evening’s telly.

At 10.30, yawning, she looks at her watch and says out loud. ‘I thought it must be after midnight. How the night’s dragging on!’

Prompt: Writing as someone else? Well, separating myself into the person who acts and the observer who writes will hafta do.

Feathers

Just a few, first thing in the morning, on the kitchen floor. My old black cat is not too old to catch the extra supper I denied him. Feathers in shades of grey, in two sizes, some underlined in white. Some tiny blobs, also, of grey fluff. No corpse, no entrails, no blood. I remonstrate weakly and fetch the brush and pan. He looks at me bold-faced; it's time for breakfast.

Winter Flowers

The winter flowers on the vine are orange, the colour of both trauma and joy (in Colour Healing). There are few left as winter ends. It has been a winter of trauma and joy, reliving the last, when Andrew began his dying, finally making his transition at the beginning of Spring. I pull a Tarot card from the Wildwood deck. The fire in the centre has bright orange flames. The card is called Abundance, meaning reward after long struggle.