The secret of fireflies

The sky presses down on me
its clouds glowing white
shift restlessly against the blue
always encroaching
but in this hidden garden you’ve built for us
the sky passes overhead
like a movie thread
distant, it disappears out of sight
here I am free to pause
to consider the black and orange beetles
fluttering between leaves –
ungainly, until I discover they are fireflies
although less magical in daylight
their secret bewitches
and at this I sway, drunk on dark thoughts
and lost in an imaginary wind
that whips down out of some other world

Among the ruins

Quin Abbey, Ireland, courtesy of

locked in stones
more silent
than whispers
the guarded walls

Long swallowed
by the earth
the darkness
no more

Ancient relics
now benign
spare details
with forgotten

Only the somber
of dusk’s shadows
tell stories

 These 42 words inspired by the Yeah Write question of the week, What aren’t you telling me?
And, of course, by the many ruins and relics of Ireland.

Sub Liminal

Beneath the silent stillness of early morning, I hear the city’s subliminal thrum. It emerges from the shadows, rising to a roar if you acknowledge it. Fears coalesce that way, too. So do secrets, like the one you thought you’d kept from me.