Neither flash fiction, nor poems, not even prose poems. This is just a fragment inspired by my Welsh retreat last year.
Close Encounters of the Welsh Kind:
Thistle prickle raw
heart once purple
stalk dried to wood.
It is more painful than it looks to have your roots killed by frost, to lose your tensility mid-stretch. The leaves curled up like hands gathered in prayer.
We are not at the austere end of the spectrum, us,we are the playful brigade
and yet we prefer dried angular shapes.
But not all grass has turned to straw. The cows in this field are full of juicy goodness.
Noswaith dda, my pretties…
Little did I know the open gate would be an invitation for the whole herd to gallop after me. It’s Grandma’s piglets all over again, making me run away in panic. Except this time I’m not three years old. And this time they are bigger, bellowing and fully horned.
findingtimetowrite 