The Choice
This is the choice:
grab the spark
with your bare hands,
feel it burn away
your skin,
or stay in the dark.There is no choice.
Linda Rushby 14 April 2021
Category: Poetry
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 13
The Box
Open the box.
Under the scuttling,
squirming, biting things
do you see
a spark
in the darkness?
You lost it many times,
thought it extinguished,
gave it up,
abandoned it.
Can you see it still?
Will it lead you back?
Linda Rushby 13 April 2021
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 12
Dark Moon
When the huntress turns her back,
hidden by the Mother’s shadow
into darkness we are driven,
lost, bereft.Fear and pain
Linda Rushby 12 April 2021
resume their reign.
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 10
Seeds
In the realm of Hades,
the tears of Persphone
water the dark seeds.Poised on the cusp
Linda Rushby 10 April 2021
of Life and Death,
holding the energies
of past generations,
in trust for the future.
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 9
Clotho
Clotho the spinner
Linda Rushby 09 April 2021
turns her wheel,
twisting the fibres,
drawing out
the thread of life
snaking onward
into the future.
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 8
The Fire
The fire burns,
warming, enticing,
images dancing.The fire burns,
crackling,
threatening.The thread is lost
beneath the ashes.Atropos waits,
Linda Rushby 8 April 2021
sharpening her scissors.
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 7
The She-Wolf
The she-wolf howls
then bends her head
to sniff the squirming creature
at her feet.Opening her wicked mouth,
Linda Rushby 7 April 2021
extending her tongue,
licking life into her newborn cub.
NapoWriMo 2021 Day 6
The Wild Dance
God of the grape,
Lord of liberation,
why do we worship you?Start the wild music,
Linda Rushby 6 April 2021
quicken our heartbeats,
summon our footsteps
to the wild dance of life.
NapoWriMo 2021 Day 5
The Golden Bough
The priestess honours
Linda Rushby 5 April 2021
the virgin huntress,
lifting the sickle
like a silver talon,
reflecting the light
of the curving moon,
and cuts the bough
of death and rebirth.
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 4
Night Hunter
Linda Rushby 4 April 2021
Silently, on soft feathers
stroking the darkness
detached from sound,
like the echo of a cloud.
A single strike,
the bloody talon closes round
the struggling morsel.
Southsea Storytellers 