Writing Sanctuary | Day Five

 

Responses to Beth Kempton’s prompts for QUENCHING

I am sitting in the old workshed. The air was busy with flies when I walked in, and then still.

The breeze is whispering round the garden outside.

I feel turned inwards, uncertain. I pause a moment. Breathe. Begin.

. . .

~ DAILY SPARKS ~

Wait

Sometimes

Living feels like unfolding an onion

Papery pungency 

Slippery dirt

Layered and layered and layered within

It’s all in the technique

Knowing which parts to cut away, and which to keep

Accepting the passing sting of tears

\ \

Don’t go into the library

I’d like to have a library

On chicken legs like Baba Yaga’s hut

To get inside, I’ll take

One small step for man

And then

a giant leap for womankind.

By the door 

I’ll find the perfect place 

to store my seven league boots

And prop my broomstick

(Also used for sweeping statements)

A kindly librarian will be at the desk to welcome me, a twinkle in their eye

“Hello, silence my old friend” I’ll say

“It’s nice to talk with you again.”

And then, in soft-socked feet I’ll glide through all the stories tucked inside

Leaving trails of worlds caught in grains of sand 

To find my way back home again.

. . .

Responding to the invitation of quenching your thirst

:

O, just a glass of water would be lovely, thanks

\ \

. . .

Today’s Person from Porlock : Comfort break

A handful of almonds and apricot to munch on the way back to the shed

Skipping in flip-flops with a mouthful of almonds

Investigating the chickens’ frantic scratching sounds, still no idea what they’re up to

Scraping chicken poo from my shoe

The lingering smell of chicken poo

. . .

The elegant delicate spider on the window makes me think translucence is a colour.

Fine-splayed legs with dark-shadowed knees.

A web so fine I can’t see it even when I peer.

I lean too close and my breath disturbs the peace.

A moment of movement, busy purpose and turning side-on, upside-down 

and now I’m gazing at the silhouette of something dark and tiny held inside.

Then light scuttle-steps back to the centre, and stopping still as death.

Fragile monument to waiting.

Today I worry about purple prose and whether to share.