At the bridge of the failed painter, I stoop and check the sagging timbers before placing one foot, then the other, on this sorry decrepitude. It cracks and pops like a first fleet ship, but the sounds are not ominous; more the rattled wheezing of an invalid friend. I proceed with care,sucking the thumb pricked on its splintery balustrade. Ahead, lies the gate and welltrod path and, branching like spider veins, the merest hints of tracks―overgrown, leading to a wilderness filled with possibilities. I stand and consider. Buttoning my duffel coat—a veteran of the moth wars, I step off the path, and into the weeds.
©L.M.Noonan




Hirsuit


Hirsuit.

Expecting the odd chin whisker,
Half-hoping for a beguiling Van Dyke.
But a mane?
The hackamore failed to curb this new grey restlessness,
yet another gift of menopause to the black and white of her Jesuit vista.
The saddle of domesticity chaffed.
Clearing her throat, she tentatively roared.

4 comments:

Shameless said...

I love it, LMN! It's going up on the circle blog as we speak! :)

Cailleach said...

That is cool! I like the way your space looks now, lmn. Loads to look at.

Anonymous said...

Hi, would you please pass this note along to Lorenza? I invite him to come visit me on my new blog, Literary Lion of Lyon. He would probably recognize me from the blog’s title, but tell him Roary sent the invitation. Thanks.

Roary ^..^

Anonymous said...

Oops! I meant to say I invite HER to come visit me on my new blog, Literary Lion of Lyon. Please apologize to Lorenza and tell her Roary really wants her to visit. Thanks.

Roary ^..^