Offer readers a chair,
Then pull it away. Haiku
Too, need a punchline.
Somewhere down the road
A child is practising the recorder;
Or possibly an owl lies dying.
Lee Jackson @VictorianLondon
At Glen Isle everything is covered in thick moss,
The standing trees, the dead trees and the path itself.
The moss, and my beard, drips from the fine mist
Densely hanging in the air.
By the river, teasel heads.
And Hambrook Marshes looking like
A Bewick Wood engraving.
Bamburgh beach. A fantastic
Long stretch of wonderful sand.
Often too cold to stand still.
Driving back home from work
I found myself briefly inside
A charm of goldfinches.
Kate Long @volewriter
A misty, frosty
Morning with a little pink moon
Sailing across the sky.
The wild swans are coming back onto the Levels,
And the winter wheat is hazing the fields with a faint greenness.
And we met some anxious red bullocks.
There's always a lovely stillness to central London
On Christmas day. Like the sound
Of something somewhere not humming.
Driving away from Christmas rehearsals,
From our window we saw 15 men with guns
Shoot terrified pheasants from the sky.
I saw four drop in agony.
Apparently those dudes pay £15,000 each to do that.
Driving off we could hear the survivors calling for the dead.
Once again, on some muddy building site
In a rain-swept icy domain.
Covered with splashes of muddy cold slime.
I'm in bed drinking tea.
I have put my arms in my dressing gown
Back-to-front outside the duvet,
Like a warming strait jacket
Do you take Monopoly money?
Only if I can be the dog.
OK yes you can. I’ll be the hat.
Snow is general all over Ascot.
It is falling on every part of the dark Ascot racecourse,
On the treeless Heath, falling softly upon the House of Adam.
Adam Roberts @arrroberts
I learnt to play the harmonica whilst driving.
On an autobahn.
Steering with my knees.
It was the early 1980s.
I’m sorry now.
Sleepless night spent reading
Of far-off places, listening to the sound
Of rain on the window.
Darran Anderson @Oniropolis
Old radio shows last week:
THE SAINT, THE MAN CALLED X,
MY FAVORITE HUSBAND, PHIL HARRIS,
THE SEALED BOOK, THE WEIRD CIRCLE.
English folklore told of seven whistlers,
Leaders of a night-flying flock,
Spirits of unhappy souls.
Jess Pagan @paganpages
The sky has turned milky coffee
And the sun is having a hard time.
Dragons have been heard and mysterious riders
Have been spotted on the Walworth Road.
It is now as dark as dusk here,
Big black clouds obscure the sun.
There is an eldritch odour to the air.
Sitting in the Moon and Sixpence
Watching massive containers
Ploughing up and down the brown churn
Of the Bristol Channel. Wales kidnapped by rain.
Preparing the balcony for autumn.
Enjoying the last colours with the backdrop
Of rising fog and falling drizzle.
Isn't she pretty? Note the
White skirt round the stem.
And the bulbous base,
not clear in this picture.
Don't think of trying it.
There are hidden histories
Few people know about and
There is always magic afoot.
Just watched a raven
veer over the shore towards the cliffs
and hang, unmoving, on an updraft.
We rose at 5 a.m.
And went out into the orchard
To look for the Perseids,
But only the brightest stars were visible
Due to an early mist
(Except, oddly, for the Pleiades).
It already feels like autumn here.
Lynn says these shooting stars
Are called the Tears of St Lawrence,
Which I did not know.
Clear dawn after yesterday.
Blue skies with brown orange in the distance.
Wales on the weekend?
Vast cloud dropping from
The tip of the troposphere. Many miles down.
In the evening colours with half moon.
Expelling a large dragonfly
That followed us into the house
Out of the thunderstorm.
To the tune of Eastenders:
Holidays in Stoke-on-Trent
Fist fights in the rain
Or watching a swan die.