The wasp and me

photo at pixabay / alexas_fotos

All things connected?
How about the wasp and me?
Yes! The wasp and me.

I hear your approach,
With your menacing vibration.
‘WHY?’ … I hear inside myself,
‘Are you necessary to creation?’

As my judgment flares,
We become set apart
Then your interest in me,
Flies off the chart!

This emotion is ‘anxiety,’
Could it be my guiding light?
Where judgment abides,
There is always a fight.

Whose sting is worse? Mine or yours?
Arghh! Exasperation, this is not who I am!
Deep breath … remember,
This was not God’s plan.

Love connects us.
Love meets both our needs.
As I appreciate your worth,
You gently leave.

Connected to all things,
Reminded by God’s grace.
The wasp and me …
We can share this space.

Catriona Messenger


photo at pixabay / tim hill

Elusive, sharp-toothed
A miniature acrobat
Plays in summer sun

The moors are sweet this day, with the warm sun of early summer bathing everything in light. The yellow gorse and purpling heather stand vivid against the grey-green grass and black-jutting rocks. And above this sea of undulation curlew call cascades from blue sky. Such a day as this belies the moor’s true face: windswept, rain-filled; a place where hardy folk dare only go and then with care.

You peer from behind the sharp-jutting rock with the innocent face of a naughty schoolboy, bright eyes watchful, curious. I know your name though we have never met. First uttered with dark undertones in children’s books it embodies the sly elusiveness of the playground sneak. But here, on this hillside, you are a thing of beauty and wonder. Your lithe body, brown-coated, shades against the hill, slips and slides with lightning speed over rock, stone and grassy tussock to curl into the homes of rabbits and mice. A master acrobat, your leap-curl dance transfixes and beguiles until – a pounce, and sharp teeth close in for the kill.

A moment of communion – and then your tiny body twists you out of sight.

Kath Sunderland

The Dipper

photo at pixabay

It was a dry sunny day when I first saw him. As I walked along the beck, the trees over hanging it swayed and rustled in the breeze and sent dappled light to dance on the water. Amongst the patterns was a patch that remained steady. After a while I realised it was a head of straw coloured hair, and I glimpsed moving branches that were, perhaps, brown arms and legs. A tune sang through the bubble and tumble of the stream.

The sun dazzled me briefly as I approached. When I entered shadow again and my eyes could see, there was no sign of that figure.

A little dipper bird watched me from a mossy boulder. Just before I reached his part of the beck he flew upstream a few yards and perched again, bobbing his head a few times. He continued ahead of me, skimming the stream, and dipping in and out of the flowing water as he went. The swooshing of water played beside me, with a faint tune fading in and out. Time seemed endless. Now was yesterday, and tomorrow, and last year, and maybe even last millennium. The beck unchanged and timeless. But when I reached the end of the trees and shadows, I realised the bird and music had gone; I was alone, and it was now once more.

Cathy Johnson

Letting go

photo at pixabay

Ashes to ashes,
Can I bear to let them go?
I know that I must

Horace, my loving canine friend,
They say all good things must come to an end.
Wherever you went, it was always the same,
With people drawn to you like moths to a flame.

Now your spirit flies free,
But your bones I can’t yet let go;
Ground down to white dust in a container by the door,
Lie cherished fragments that wait beside me as I sleep,
Until I feel ready to cast you into the wind
Like a cloud of cherry blossom,
Settling on the foreshore,
Washed away by the tide,
Imbibed into the saline bloodstream of Mother Earth,
Nurturing her as you nurtured me,
As you nurtured those you touched.

Kevin Turpin

Deer in the morning wood

photo at pixabay

The wind in the trees
makes me want to leap and run
she is my own breath

I wake before first light, to the rustle of insects inside the hollow tree, where I have slept. I have been warm and safe. Dawn comes silver through the trees, lighting the drops of dew to diamonds. Silver turns gold. In the dappled shade I lick jewels from tall grasses. We sit together, the tree and I, in the glowing morning, listening to the music of the birds, like golden rain. Quietly we listen to the language of the wind, as she sways the branches and flutters the leaves. We sit together in a patch of sunlight and watch the moon disappear.

Sylvia Stevens


photo at pixabay

Wedding Reception
In Colorado mountains
Bull elk gate crashes

Dancing in full swing
Enjoyment and fun
Sudden dash to the window
Cameras flashing
Bull elk wants to join us
Who can get the best picture?
We all knew there was danger
But he stayed where he was
He did not move
Posed for photos
Stayed for entertainment

Dorothy Crowther