each night, enveloped in scarlet golden sun slides under blue blankets gossamer strands of lingering light caress cooling sands waves wash upon the shore, breaking breaking, unceasingly breaking erasing away the day
each night, cloaked in obsidian silver moon shakes out her gown scattering glittering pennies over wine-dark skies waves wash upon the shore, breaking breaking, unceasingly breaking hailing a new dawn
I first posted this poem two years ago. A year later, when we were under lockdown and the noise of engines fell silent and wild animals walked the streets, it seemed that nature just might have a chance, but once again, pollution spews, plastic continues to fill the oceans and the ice caps are melting even more quickly. Today, Earth Day 2021, I find my poem is just as relevant, maybe more so.
My characters often chat with me, usually in that sleepless hour between three and four in the morning, when they worm their way into my consciousness and strike up a conversation. Some of the principal players from my second novel, You’ll Never Walk Alone, are the most insistent. This recent conversation went the way they usually do, starting with a few flattering comments and then… well, you’ll see.
I’m sitting with Connor and Cynthia in the patch of garden behind Cynthia’s flat. It’s late summer and bees are buzzing lazily around the neglected rosebushes, echoing the hum of the traffic circling Sefton Park.
Connor fills our glasses and places the almost empty bottle on the peeling wrought iron table. He sits back, takes a large mouthful of wine and beams at me. ‘I believe congratulations are in order, once again, Ms Hall.’