Sunday, 17 March 2013

mad march mornings

mad march morning workout....
Each bright new morning, when my eyes have focussed and my joints have eased into human form, I open my bedroom blind, pull my shoulders back against the wall, and write 140 characters on the narrative unfolding in front of me. Same view, different scene.
Why not try it. No thinking or editing allowed, just see beyond what is in front of you, write it down and then post....
Monday: Birds are in fine voice, hiccups of song in anticipation of morning sweeping across the rooftops, easing us into its possibilities.
Tuesday: blue sky weaved with pink & silver threads, the moon winking a cheeky farewell from its fabric. Curtains up, let's go. Morning all.
Wed: Soft sky; morning an expectant orchestra to the east, tree branches sway in dance of anticipation, soft rain the musical accompaniment
Thursday: Grey-black sky, the darkest hour paddles in orange oily pavements, trees bow & yawn, gathering strength to welcome another day.
Friday: The sky falls, curious tears flirting with earthy roots, its playful vessel ebbing & flowing, teasing us to ride the morning tide.
Saturday: electric sky, broad swathes of wind swooshing determined cloud to the west, our impatient heels clicking as we chase the new day.
Mothering Sunday: Angels peer from the shoulder of an almost life, tiny wings carried by silent gusts, their empty hush the weeping of hearts
Monday: clouds circle, enveloping earth in a whiteness of swans. Wings outstretched we walk on its soft feathers, the day still & quiet.
Tuesday: early morning sky mimics dusk, its playful hue chasing both light & dark, turning with encouraging nod, venturing forward & back.
Wednesday: a ribbon of yellow blends into the night sky, flowing under & over, binding with the faintest sense of yesterday, pushing on.
Thursday: the earth, still & expansive, waits to swallow the tumbling chaos of another day, roots poised to sup the sweet nectar of morning.
Friday: the house stretches into the weekend, its broad back pushing icy rain on to shiny pavements, speckles of orange winking in windows.
Saturday: a bright sky, an artist sweeping an innocent white across its canvas, the new day emerging from the soft lips of watching angels.
Sunday: the street snuggles under a blanket of fresh snow, soft flakes the down of a pinking sky. A passing choir opens its throat in song.

1 comment:

  1. I recently came across your blog and have been reading along. I thought I would leave my first
    comment. I dont know what to say except that I have enjoyed reading. Nice blog.
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