Winter Shadows


Winter Shadows

The lights make mischief
Every shadow every shape
Whilst waiting for snow

The Shade of Shadows

We stand in the shadow of a concrete god

A roaring, rampant, rumbling beast of vehicular worship

Where people pass at speeds to fear contained

By barriers of that selfsame indestructibility

Yet beneath the behemoth, where its shadow

Lightly tickles the chopping waters so filled with fish

And walkers wonder at what occurs unseen

Both above in the aether and below the waves

Somehow stuck in that world of semi-darkness

Neither part of one nor the other until the sun chooses

To adjust celestial alignments and warm their souls

Which by then, they won’t be wondering

Just seeking the shade of shadows again

The Discarded (Micro-Fiction)

They left us behind like so many discarded rags. Not a word was said, no clue or conundrum to be solved, it was as if we’d never even existed. Our sun had set.

The Winter came with snow and ice, a cold, cold fury. We huddled under the lone light of an iron lantern, a ragtag collection of those without life. I was more grateful for my companions in those perpetual nights than I’d ever been for my other. In summer and spring he stood on me for laughs, kicked footballs at my head when I rested against the wall, drowned me in the village pond. Did he hate me so? Did they all?

North of the Arctic circle was a hard place to survive, waiting for the sun to return. Always waiting. We lingered in preparation for our other halves, our solid halves, to come back, winter lepers, something less than whole. We prayed in silence lipless and confused.

Where we should have ridden the summer breeze, instead, we fluttered in the shadows as melancholy took hold. It would be a long six months holding out for our others. But we would, we always did, until it would be our time to discard they. Such was a shadow’s destiny over and over again. 

The End.




The sun was out and a gentle, cool breeze was blowing. The perfect excuse for a wander. 

Most of the previous week, although dry, had been cloudy and it was a pleasant change to see blue sky. As per usual, we decided to head for a high point to get a nice view. So we did.

There was no reason to arrive at the top of the Wolds when we did (local rolling hills) nor was there any reason for doing the walk the way we did. Had we eaten early: possibly. Had we not done enough already: probably. So what were the odds of being in that place on that day at that time at that angle, when we’ve done the walk hundreds of times before? Long, I should think. 

And the point to my ramble, you cry? Never once have we seen the shadow of the fence align with the thin path so perfectly. I’d have had trouble drawing it across the undulating surface with such exacting perfection. Coincidence? Possibly. But I think it’s quite remarkable whether it was or not.


Soothing strokes of promised spring,
 They trace the wrinkles of my soul.
 There is an awakening within / without-
 And I sense something amazing to happen-
 Something unfurling as an opening bud.
 ‘Is this Spring,’ I ask the warming sun.
 My smiling shadow nods yes.