Young Writers Society

19. Passion Joy

They cycled sunburnt
down the sickle-shaped streets.
The broken tar,
the glittering edges.
The lamp post and
the hibiscus bushes.
(All they remembered were the bright red blooms,
the old tree assumed
of that hot afternoon.)
They cycled under stern branches outlined
in golden fleet-winged birds.
In emerald leaves.
In mushrooms.
(All they remembered were the bright red blooms --)
They cycled noisily
to the cul-de-sac.
The sharp glint of fences,
the bright green vines,
(the old tree assumed)
were made from plastic.
So they stopped to gawk
at the climbing morning glories.
The resonant glow.
The pinks, blues, purples –
(of that hot afternoon.
When the old tree assumed
they only remembered the bright red blooms.)

20. Transit with an Anonymous Ocean Being

Sock-sleeve
passage down
to sea bed.
Black and velvety.
She follows you
with three pairs of eyes
bioluminescent.
Comfortable pressure
that hugs in places
you can be hugged.
"It's not a lift,
but it works well enough,”
she whispers
(somewhere between
the back of your left eye
and a memory of seaweed
washed ashore.)
Plants under here
shadow-dance
soft but not slippery.
There is no floor,
suspended
legs kick idly
there is no sense of danger,
but the thought does occur:
“It works well enough,
but it’s not a lift.”

21. Glass Capsule

low green hedges
light and dust motes
a white butterfly
skirting over leaves.

22. Crow's Pitcher

Flat water surface, reflecting sun-warmed black, and an obsidian pearl. A pearl that blinked. A pearl that examined its own reflection and made ripples lance cross-ways on the liquid. Drink held by a wide clay rim, liminal to the neck that narrowed within. On a hot afternoon, the flock departing soon, a fluffy crow perched by his pitcher

and tripped. Splashed transparent marbles all over the place. He got out, and shook his feathers. Untouched by the movement, three grey pebbles at the bottom let some bubbles loose. The crow liked being clumsy. It kept him learning. He drank the water he got by meddling, and sprayed more water all over his feathers. That evening, droplets glowed on the pitcher’s side.

23. That Sky Was Not A Cup

Shifting grey layers
sky after rain
they were trying to cross the bridge again.

Wet green field of dry grass,
grass blades thirsted to brownness
but limp with the weight
of rainwater.
And three-toed feet.

They could not go two steps
without mushrooms.

White round caps
springy underfoot
until they pressed too hard
and burst them.

A path of bare dirt,
bare of white buttons
trailed them as they meandered to the steps.

Two dragons on
the low wooden bridge.

24. Firefly March

Blue-green distant trees
backdrop close ones:
their barks
scaly and jagged,
peeled to reveal
sharp round rings.

Lines. Glints of silver
connecting branch to branch
up to that crack of blue sky.

Light-marbles spiral down them.
What should be a small twittering sound
is muffled, soaked in grey
and thrums instead, thick and low notes.

They circle round the clearing
of that algal forest floor.
Pale yellow lights, pinpricks
needling the air.

They speak with the spider
on a bowing new leaf.

They tell it
to build them a washing line.

25. Greenhouse Ferns

Fern fronds drift and float
emerald layers with mint sheen
and sage green shadows.
Stalks closely packed together
touch as they bend
breathing the same mists:
warm wet greenhouse air,
a warm wet greenhouse kiss.

26. Young Hour

Chipped, the well-worn edge
of a bench by the bright stream
stretched out under pale white light.

Criss-crossed scratches on dark green steel
the curving arm, the intricate back,
the wood peppered with tiny holes.

It was watching the time when crickets cry,
their songs sailed up, towards that
studious early moon.

27. An Echo, Through Trees

Under the pines, the old school
could listen to the sound of river water.

The rooms were not always dark,
the floors not always quiet.

Wooden planks chattered
with the echoes of feet running.

Someone had drawn a circle in the dirt,
someone had picked the yellow wildflowers.

What could those open windows see?
there from the valley with the moonlight.

Hanging above the waterfall
a dense protective fog.

28. Secret Meeting

The wide-open mist
was shifting on the low grey ferns.
Dead moon
floating in an ice-blue cup.

Then they arrived blue-green and fluffy
under the pale light.
Their little flat feet surrounded
the chipped marble table.

On off-white sheets
they sketched a rectangular plane.
There were plans for a time machine,
and maybe an interdimensional gate.

With green strands pulled
from their mops, they suspended
their work in the centre of the hedge-maze
with a hope someone would find it there.

One drew up his sock-sleeve
against the cold.
Seeking moon shimmered
a past-midnight bright.

29. Bougainvillea’s Jar

Deep orange bougainvillea petals
kissed together, on the tips
of climbing brown stems

tapping against the glass
of the greenhouse
in the rain.

Reflections of droplets
cast a single grey light-shard
onto the flower’s cheek.

30. Meadow Crystals

The white butterfly dreamed
of an endless green meadow,
a path marked by crystals
that burst from the grass
and grew up towards
the shining golden sun.
Crystals that seemed
to contain movement –
the luminescent outlines,
gliding waters within,

and flowers would grow
in the overturned soil
opening up to reveal
topaz inside.

31. Wooden Comb

Small birds chirping
in the backyard.
Somebody left a wooden comb
on the last step.
The sun outlined
its smooth handle.

It lived in a house
that overlooked
browning grass
and in the distance
long reed stalks,
a silent lake,
barely visible.

A thick tree trunk
from its branch dangled
a swing meant for one.

That too was made of wood,
like the comb
which could not be seen,
it was the same warm chestnut
as the worn steps
where people had to
know it was there
to know it was there.

32. Water Sun

If nothing else, sunset
swam down that river,
sweetly orange
and achingly red.

It lit the reeds
as they hummed
in a yearning evening breeze.

Dandelion seeds
and light floated under
the narrow bridge
to the lonesome boat.

The horizon line
glowed golden
as it cut the water’s surface.

33. Lightness in a Bottle

Lightness in a falling frond
as it touches the puddle
and reclines with its tip
turned up to the grey sky.

The coolness is bottled up
by the spreading trees,
gathered in the clearing
by the leaves.