Anne Brooke

The rose I find
written in red
beneath the lattice
knows its own glory
...

A late goldfinch
flutters at the bird feeder:
...

The crunch under my boot,
remnants of a faraway summer
golden, brown and crimson
already disappearing
...

Sunday nights
are for murder,
something cosy
with a hint of spice
...

The silence has wrapped me
so long that I forgot
how to make words
dance in the sky
...

The horses returned
Just when we thought
They wouldn’t:
...

The brush and shuffle
of the working day

dance around me
...

The morning hums
with spiders,
thick white webs
casting shadows
...

You write your meaning
in golden ink

shaping letters
...

You were wrong,
my poetic friend, because
October is the cruellest month, burying
dead leaves in dead soil, mixing
...

Poetry is like chocolate
because it’s mellow, mystical,
and melts on the tongue
...

brings out the laughter
which this grey day

kept hidden.
It is a sound
...

Like the slow trickle of water

or the crumple of paper in the hand
...

Sometimes

you just have to
...

Outside in the dark
starlight sparkles,
...