hedgerow a journal of small poems

#116

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first plips of rain— a child dropping something into the old dog's grave the padlock to granddad's shed rusted shut a stranger's smile follows me all the way down the dark street Michael Dylan Welch

after many years of knowing each other’s thoughts – silence of snow falling from heaven Marilyn Humbert

stone Buddha darkened with rain childhood memories Nika

tumour marker – the green silence of mother's garden Goran Gatalica

the burden of my footstep dry creek bed Sandi Pray

horseback we both know i am lost old photos the kid in that narrow wheelchair starlings' nest wearing out our welcome mat Ken Olson

water crowns the spontaneous rise of small desires Kala Ramesh

fragrant blossoms in the moonlight my son questions what the speed of smell is against a backdrop of stars – bonfires in his eyes oboe solo lessons given up decades ago a dewdrop at the tip of a leaf Agnes Savich

shallow breath a flutter of wings in the rafters night light a deserted bucket fills with stars Dave Read

the sky covered by dark clouds my father’s death chimes rise from the old temple a candle flickers David He Zhuanglang

morning sun be soft on my eyes all night I was young and the world glistened with lilacs keep me in the dark a little longer Catherine LoFrumento

What's Left Behind Islington, London...1939-1945 Black morning; another day unfolds sirens thicker than dust... friends zipped in body bags. Work...so many cards still in the rack. Will they be remembered too? unstamped at the factory clock-in... mother's war Brendon Kent

desert night falling star fading into silence little mouse her run of the house “may all beings be happy” Fred Andrle

Father's Day his hand lets go of the bicycle seat his third second chance a layer of algae on the pond starlight caresses this inkling of something more Julie Warther

her news trying to grasp the space between breaths John Hawkhead

howling wind inside I too am screaming broken doll my dreams of becoming a doctor Rachel Sutcliffe

mouse spirit whispering close to the ground so small moving through the long grass shaking the seedheads it's the small things that I love, the ants the beetles the falling grain the little stones there are holes where I hide under grey rocks in rotting logs among tree roots I know I am prey food for so many I become snakeskin I become fur and feather let the eagles and the running wolves see from above I have no more need of the wide high scene

I string small bone beads on thread I put small words on paper pages I watch darkling beetles I walk lightly now on the land the grasses shelter me fallen leaves are my bed this is my place the stony ground the sand, the soil I have no need of flight I am the colour of ashes Joy McCall