Moon Woolf Red light at three a.m. blinks across the bedroom chair awake, I feel the pulse in its narrow glare a faint insistent scrape between the boundary of me and it, the door downstairs, a lover’s ghost, long banished set loose, he may be out on the prowl, that moon hound, opportunist picker up of the left out in the cold, niched in a stone gap caught in the waning beam of a silver gloved moon and its howl, lurching at a canter outrunning the fire as patchy light breaks on the next shore, red light blinking
Season end of autumn cuts each leaf falling at its point the wind’s edge curling counting, pulling each long hour since we left those clement skies, the long deepest death winter’s drum, rolling, broken heart stopped in a gasp, consequence of a grief owned
Jenny is a published writer of poetry and prose at present working on short fiction and prose poetry. Graduating from the Royal central School in London some years ago, she followed a career in the performing arts and has walked in many worlds. The juxtaposition of life in all its cadences continues to inspire her, especially so at this stranger than strange time.
Grand Little Things 