Wild & Improbable Tales – A Ghost Of Warmth

At first, it looks like a room full of people.

With a languorous certainty, they circulate, moving like the inexorable grace of a glacier, the entrancing dance of the fire. And then you notice something strange: there are no heads, no hands, no legs. They are a sea of jumpers and sweaters, moving as though filled by invisible figures. They float, pause, embrace in unfathomable patterns and currents. The space seems to glow. As you watch, you notice that each and every one of them is old, threadbare and carries something undefinable, which, as they pass, leaves an impression of memory: they glide before you like old film.

Being carefully knitted from a skein of scarlet wool; unwrapped with excitement on Christmas morning and immediately pulled on over pyjamas; thoughtfully selected from amongst racks of others; nervously presented to a loved one; lent from mother to daughter, father to son, lover to lover; frantically searched for on the first frosty morning of the year; lovingly wrapped around a small child who drowns in its folds; bemoaned when the stitching begins to fray; held onto until all that holds them together is love and fading memories; and, eventually, reluctantly, parting ways: passed on to another, bundled up with the charity shop donations, occasionally lost in a forgetful moment on the seat of a bus or under a restaurant table, or folded carefully and placed – with regret – on the rubbish pile.

But the things that are so woven with our lives can never truly be lost or forgotten or even given up. And so they come here. Our knitted echoes, animated by a ghost of warmth.


“You’re a storyteller. Dream up something wild and improbable,” she pleaded. “Something beautiful and full of monsters.”

Strange The Dreamer by Laini Taylor

Inspired by Erin Morgenstern’s Flax-Golden Tales, I have decided to embark on my own creative writing blog series, “Wild & Improbable Tales”, as a way to write more freely and more frequently. At least once a week, I will choose a card at random from The School Of Life‘s ‘Small Pleasures’ box and use the image and/or writing on the back to inspire a short piece of creative writing. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Winter Joy

My heart is so full. It’s Christmas and my brother is – wonderfully, unexpectedly -home. There are no words for the joy this has brought me. So instead, I will simply wish you joy and peace of your own and leave you with a wintry poem about light in the darkest part of the year.

Under Earthbound Stars

Just when it seems

That the world has

Withdrawn

Into itself

And skeletal trees stand testament to a

Lifeless

Season,

We hang stars on every branch and bough

And light candles in every window,

Bringing warm hope

To the cold night.

When it seems the whole world should be

Hibernating,

Hidden away and

Waiting

In quiet solitude

For the Sun’s return,

We gather.

Stories and laughter and gifts

Of Time

Or Trinkets

Are shared

Over vats of mulled goodness

Under a man-made Milky-Way

Of Earthbound stars.

And when the sharing is done

A sleepy

Silence

Settles itself,

Like a thick, woollen throw, around our weary shoulders.

We sigh and allow our stuffed selves to

Drift

Into a contented sleep

With a wish of snow upon our lips

And,

If we’re lucky,

We wake to find the world muted and muffled

By a new kind of

Magnificence.

And we are reminded of the

Beauty

That can be found in a

Blank

Page.

Hello Jack Frost

Hello, Jack Frost

How have you been?

Back again

To make the world gleam

With glittering starlight

Brought to ground

I love it when

Your time comes round.

When what was breath

To clouds does turn

And icy fractals

Plate autumn’s burn.

The world goes quiet,

The earth stands still

And arms wrap selves

In hugs until

It’s time to retreat

Back to our beds

With glittering starlight

In our heads

And winter’s song

Upon our tongue,

We bear the chill

Of your belonging

Because, Jack Frost,

You playful rogue,

Though you might freeze

Our hand and nose,

We have a secret love

You see

For how you tame

The world, nightly:

Not with lies

And not with war

Not with thunder’s

Mighty roar

But with a scattering of stars

Brought from the heavens

To light our hearts

So hello, Jack Frost

How have you been?

It’s nice to have you

Back again

Ignore our grumbles

It’s just fine

To paint the world with

Your icy rime

And take our breath

For clouds instead

And let us walk

Your starry bed.

Autumn Mornings

Last September we got a puppy. She turned our lives upside down (mostly for the better – who can resist a happy puppy face in the morning and when you get home from work?) but probably the biggest change she made is that I now actually HAVE to get up when my alarm goes off in the morning. No more snoozing. No more lying awake but savouring the warmth of my duvet. I am not a morning person but I have actually found that, once I’m up and out, I genuinely enjoy my morning walks with the pup. Hubby and I alternate the morning walk so we both get alternate days where we can be a tad more lazy/slow to wake up. But on my walking days, even when it’s raining, it’s nice to start the day with some fresh air. I can listen to my audiobook or some season or mood appropriate music to set me up for the day. Sometimes I blog as I walk (like I am now) with breaks, of course, to throw a stick or chase my playful not-quite-a-pup-anymore, or just to watch her revel in the general joy of being a dog off the lead. It’s lovely.

But…

Now we are getting into autumn proper and winter is creeping it’s way toward the northern hemisphere, our morning walks are happening in the pitch black. I’m not so much watching the pup playing as I I am watching a disembodied LED collar trace circles round the park. Now, don’t get me wrong, I LOVE this time of year – the boots! The scarves! The autumnal food and music! It’s my favourite. And I still enjoy stepping out into the crisp morning air. But, this morning, as I walked, I couldn’t help but pen a realistic portrait of how I felt…

Wild & Improbable Tales – The Winter King’s Summer

Dawn light broke through the reaching, inky fingers of the trees.

Though summer was barely waning, the forest stood denuded of its leaves, as it always had. As it always would.

The villagers had long stopped questioning why their wood did not bud and bloom and turn with the seasons. They knew it still lived, suspended in its own eternal moment of magic.

On the hottest of summer days, stepping into the shade of those trees you would find yourself engulfed in the chill of winter’s breath. Nothing moved; nothing grew; no birds sang; and yet the beauty of those bare black limbs stretched across the land, a frosty rime clinging to them in diamond chains, was enough to stir the soul.

Here the Winter King ruled all the year, his magic great and terrible. The lore told that he never left the wood, until it was winter’s turn to walk the world, but this August dawn glinted on a betrayal of tradition: a trail of frost that escaped the forest and touched the nearest cottage.

Within, two sisters, who had lived and loved some thirty years in their home which hugged the Winter King’s realm, now held a new repose: one sat regal, crowned in snowflakes, the other lay lifeless, an icicle through her heart.


“You’re a storyteller. Dream up something wild and improbable,” she pleaded. “Something beautiful and full of monsters.”

Strange The Dreamer by Laini Taylor

Inspired by Erin Morgenstern’s Flax-Golden Tales, I have decided to embark on my own creative writing blog series, “Wild & Improbable Tales”, as a way to write more freely and more frequently. At least once a week, I will choose a card at random from The School Of Life‘s ‘Small Pleasures’ box and use the image and/or writing on the back to inspire a short piece of creative writing. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Winter

Just when it seems

That the world has

Withdrawn

Into itself

And skeletal trees stand testament to a

Lifeless

Season,

We hang stars on every branch and bough

And light candles in every window,

Bringing warm hope

To the cold night.

 

When it seems the whole world should be

Hibernating,

Hidden away and

Waiting

In quiet solitude

For the Sun’s return,

We gather.

Stories and laughter and gifts

Of Time

Or Trinkets

Are shared

Over vats of mulled goodness

Under a man-made Milky-Way.

 

And when the sharing is done

A sleepy

Silence

Settles itself,

Like a thick, woollen throw, around our weary shoulders.

We sigh and allow our stuffed selves to

Drift

Into a contented sleep

With a wish of snow upon our lips

And,

If we’re lucky,

We wake to find the world muted and muffled

By a new kind of

Magnificence.

And we are reminded of the

Beauty

That can be found in a

Blank

Page.

Come Home To Rest

The Earth smoulders

With the turning of the season

And the clouds drift down

To kiss the burning land.

A veil of tears

Lands softly on flaming leaves

But even heaven’s weeping

Cannot dull the

Rioting palette

Of autumn’s inferno.

And when the most parts,

Making way for the pale light

Of winter’s promise,

And the chill of year’s end

Arrives on the breath of the hills,

The leaves curl and crisp underfoot,

Rustling their accompaniment to fading birdsong.

Polished conkers gleam amongst summer’s debris.

Woodsmoke hangs in the air,

The crackle of logs echoing in the quiet.

The world exhales

A long sigh of letting go.

As though, after a long day,

She has come home to rest.

Palette of Spring


The world stretches awake

Inhales the first warm breath of the year

Exhales a languorous perfume

Which settles over gently unfurling buds

Nature’s confetti scattered on brightly verdant grass

Drifts in swirls and eddies

A lazy waltz 

To the tune of changing seasons

Endless sky opens up above

The fresh faced sun beaming

Over the brightly hued

Palette of spring

Look At How The Leaves Turn

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Look at how the leaves turn,
Turn their cloaks of red,
Sacrifice their lofty views
To quilt the flowerbed.

Look at how the leaves turn,
Turn their cloaks of gold.
All dressed up,
No place to go,
They leave their boughs to brave
The cold.

Look at how the leaves turn,
Turn from life to death.
Yet they bring us beauty
As they fall to Winter’s breath.

Look at how the leaves turn,
Turn through Autumn’s shades.
Those burning oranges,
Those flames,
Light the way as their year
Fades.

Look at how the leaves turn,
Turn for you and me.
I swear I never saw a sight
More beautiful to see.

Poem and picture are my own. Feel free to share but please link back and credit. 😊