Tourmaline Visions (18)


The woman looked down at the ruins for a long time,

as the stone crooned its endless song.
‘The journeys end,’ she thought…
‘but not over.’
And she settled down in the rough grass to wait.
* * * *
The thief was on his feet and hobbling along the path
as fast as he could when the ravens came.
They passed overhead like a swift moving thundercloud,
and he felt, rather than heard, the cruel triumphant laughter filling the forest.
And he bent himself against the stinging of a rising wind and started to run.
* * * *
The urchin watched as the ravens blanketed the ruined cottage roof.
He pulled back deeper into the woods and filled his hands with earth
and started to sing quietly,
without words,
like the hum of a thousand beehives.
And his eyes glowed green and the clouds slowed in their stately sky skimming
and the forest listened…



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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