It’s not the dank, damp, grey days.
It’s not the drizzle that seeps through the seams of my coat.
It’s not the dark mornings.
It’s not the dark evenings.

It’s the crisp air of an early morning frost.
It’s the spiders’ webs glistening with frozen dew.
It’s the shades and hues as the leaves turn golden.
It’s the peace and quiet as nature settles down for her long sleep.

“Sticks and stones …” the familiar saying goes
but words hurled in anger
are as sharp as a needle or sword:
the pen is mightier
and can cut to the core.

So, choose the words you write with care
as the wounds from your words
can fester and scar.

Instead,
use your words to praise,
to console,
to declare your love,
for those words
are the most powerful
and feed the soul.

‘Excuse me…’
‘Shhh …’
(Whispering)
‘Excuse me…’

Steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses glare at me
And a blank piece of paper
Is passed across with an irritated nod
Toward the pen *** on the counter.

I reach to the ***,
Select a nondescript ballpoint pen,
And write.

Passing the paper back, I wait …

Steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses scans the page.
An audible ‘tut’ escapes her lips
And a finger beckons me to follow…

We walk past aisles of fiction and fact
Coming to a halt at section 020.

Steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses waves imperiously
At the shelves in front of me,
Turns, and walks away.

Scanning the books
I find the title I requested:
‘Library Etiquette’.

I smirked as I pulled the book from the shelf,
Returning to the desk
And steely-grey eyes behind
Horn-rimmed glasses.

Crow’s caw,
Wind’s whisper.
The muted bell
In the old church tower.

Moon’s rise,
Clouds veiling.
Distant voices
Chant in unison.

Night’s chill,
Breath clouding.
Feet tread softly
On leaves’ rust carpet.

Robed wraiths.
Faces masked.
Dread creeps o’er me
As they pass me by.

Now silence,
Air so still.
All sight shrouded
By a mist’s embrace.

When I was a child,
I was always told
I must colour inside the lines.

It was told to me
With such conviction
I was fearful to stray
Beyond those lines on the page.

I became quite okay with it then
As I had my colours
And thought little about
What it really meant.

But when I grew up,
I began to question the real purpose
Of those lines that constrained me.

Who put the lines there?
What is the reason for them?
Why shouldn’t I stray beyond them?

The answers came gradually
And two themes prevailed:
You must be compliant!
You must conform!

Like those lines on the page
That I mustn’t stray beyond,
Society draws the lines
To mark the norm.

It is safe inside the lines;
Society is pleased
Because you don’t break their rules.

Are you happy to comply?

That first, frosty, autumn morn
I ventured out into the woods.

It was crisp and cold,
My breath hung momentarily in the air.

The trees had shed their leaves In the windy days
And were now carpeting the forest floor.

My first step onto the russet and gold carpet
Crunched so satisfyingly and each step the same.

I set off at a brisk pace,
Leaves crackling and rustling underfoot; so pleasing to the ear.

I continued my walk across this golden carpet
Accompanied by the leaves’ susurration

And remembrances of childhood,
Playing amongst the fallen leaves.