Robin on the fence

Breast aflame with red passion

Lost Summer sunsets

50 Word Stories: The Sycamore Seeds

They spiralled down like dislodged plane rotors from the smallest fleet ever built. Millions? Well, that might’ve been exaggerating. Closer to thousands. Not one of them struck me, though. They avoided me with what I considered measured contempt. The last sycamore seeds of autumn. They could try again next year.


Her skin was the colour of the last April snows, her lips the red of rebirth. Gentle of mind and body, she flirted with us all in pursuit of a distant summer. These things always seem further than they are passing all to swiftly when you’d wish them not.

We treasured those few months she was with us, savoured her every last intoxicating aroma. A seasonal adjustment, she guided us away from the cold and drear presenting us instead with that most treasured of quantities, promise. We called her Blossom, that Spring was hers.

Like The Seasons

Cherry blossom petals torn from the tree,

One epidermis shed in preparation for another,

Stripped bare by cold, remorseless winds;

This Spring made Winter in a mixed up morning.

I see it all through watering eyes, alone,

The sleek grass topped by sleet – a poor man’s dew –

Grapples at my shoes, pulling me back,

Or, perhaps, relentlessly pushing me away:

I no longer notice the details I once savoured.

My mouth is dry, tongue hanging lifeless, limp,

An overactive imagination shattered by simple truth;

Like the seasons, I have been found wanting

Without ever realising I was ever being judged.

50 Word Stories: Time’s Circle

New life burst from the thought dead branches in plumes of bone-white like skeletal remains given a beauteous second chance. The world gleamed in their brave reemergence and so did I. Another year, another season in time’s circle had begun, and it still carried the colours of the last.