Low River

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Low River

Listless and limp;
unmoving bowers,

no rain to wash
her barren banks

or call to arms
redundant
birds,

incumbent on
unforgiving 
scree.

A hiker
slides
an angled 
drop,

picks a route
along
the exposed spine,

leaves behind
dislodged stones.




©AndrewJamesMurray

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A Time To Create Or, If You Prefer, Put Those Winter Woolies Away

We are not out of the woods yet. Though we are in the tail end of March there is still talk of cold weather to come, with possible snow for Easter being mooted.

But still, there’s always signs, hints of the season to follow. Winter is fighting it’s last rearguard action, and the end will be merciful. Easter does indeed bring a resurrection.

The longer days, the warmer weather and emerging wildlife always seem to bring a creative boon, and now is no different. I am tweaking the manuscript for a second poetry collection: In Brigantia, before returning to the second draft of the novel Seasons On The Hill that I’m writing. Beyond this I have ideas for a semi-fictional take on family stories handed down to me, provisionsally entitled In Times Of War, and also a collection of short stories called The Night Spills In.

I’ve also agreed this week to proofread a translated work for a fellow poet, so things are starting to move.I’ve got a tentative plan about the order of things.

But first a coffee, I think, and see what tomorrow’s weather brings.

In Spanish Hills

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

In Spanish Hills
In this fiery furnace
is forged a languid blade,
yet in these hills
is a vibrant pulse.
And formed within
this small enclave
is a definite sense
of them, and us.

The eye drowns in colour
and shimmering haze,
yet we carry around 
a windswept moor.
On an azure calm
our vision sails,
but what comes to mind
is a battered shore.



©AndrewJamesMurray


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Word Jam #3

3.00am thoughts run like water

Coronets For Ghosts

radio tales
white heat desert Americana

the water
recalls every rock
it has washed over

even now with the rivers run dry
somewhere it dreams

in dark chambered veins
away from the sun
and the music

keeping me awake at 3.00am




©AndrewJamesMurray

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