Dappled (Elfje Poetry)

The light
In shady arbours
We walk through paradise

Author's Note: I took this photo tonight. What a beautiful evening for a stroll.

50 Word Stories: No Worries

As we meandered in Sunday languor a Spring sun warming our backs, the view the same both up and down, we touched the sky. Only the pathway's lush, green verges gave consistency to our world, the rocks true weight. We flew for those minutes with feet firmly planted. Never worrying.

Reclining – A Holiday Post


I’m reclining. That’s a funny little expression, don’t you think?

Reclining is one of my favourite words and even more favourite actions. Today I’m reclining in a new arts cafe, soaking up the atmosphere, looking refined, and trying not to get caramel shortcake all over my mouth. The piece is delicious melting on my tongue like a snowflake, but all too small. Fortunately, my wife chose to eat some ridiculously chocolaty bun, which included white chocolate — she doesn’t like white chocolate; I do — so I offered to help. I’m good like that.

We have both ordered a locally ground coffee with a Christmas tinge and are taking our time luxuriating in its delicious aroma. This is our holiday treat — the missus has had the week off, but we couldn’t afford to go anywhere — and what a special treat it is.

Some people like their cars, expensive holidays, works of art, whilst some are more easily pleased; we’re two of them. After a lovely walk in the sun (images below) this has nicely rounded off our week of walking, running and relaxing. 

We saw the moon get stuck beneath the Humber Bridge. Here it is.

So, our little break is over, not that it was with Hunter Hunted being released last Tuesday. Back to work for the missus and back to the writing that I didn’t really leave for me. 

And breathe.

November walks

There’s a degree of uncertainty as to what to wear on a November walk. There’s always the hope of sunshine slicing through a morning mist and the lingering prospect of sunglasses seeing extra use. Perhaps boots are in order for a meadow cobwebbed by a million dewdrops. Fog threatens to make an appearance on many November days, so a coat looks a certainty. And one should never forget a hat for those chilly reminders of the Christmas to come. Then again, you could start the month with them all just like today, and then you can wear the lot.

Hand in Hand

Wind away walkways

A route through the trees

Captured in emerald

A journey of leaves

Meandering slowly 

A sojourn through life

Relaxing this mind

And easing the strife

I’ll tread upon you

On plank and on dirt

Whilst rain patters down

Reducing the hurt

Zen of the forest

And calm of sweet pine

Let’s go there together

Put your hand in mine

The Pondering Stone


Merlin hat

Or Matterhorn miniature,

You mark the way

To somewhere;



Acorn encrusted stone,

Perhaps, an oversight;

No Oak trees straddle these paths,

You offer demarcation

To one route unknown

The other, too know.

Strangest waystone

Relevant to someone,

I heed your mileage advice

And move on

In deep pondering.

Maybe that is your purpose

To induce thought in the tired wanderer,

Or maybe you serve no purpose at all.

I’ll think on it

Until I’m certain.



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.

Washed Away

 Rain sweeps down in bursts of sea,
 Roads turn to lakes, paths to streams.
 Blackbirds take shelter beneath umbrella leaves;
 I hear their twitterings float away into a damp distance.
 Even the trees hang their heads in wet slumps.
 All is damp, all is grey.
 Weather for ducks, my mum used to say.
 But despite the cold and clammy walk,
 Despite the pooling water around my feet,
 I know that tomorrow the path will be washed clean.

Nighttime Excursions

 Dappled lies the sky above my head
 Softly encouraging to go to bed
 Prompting the senses that it’s time to rest
 As lights flick on and hill I crest

 Cars on the incline zoom on past

 Perhaps, it is time to turn at last

 So retrace my footsteps back home to sleep
 Adventure is over – a memory to keep