pohutawaka branches sway over my car, red needles forming a soft carpet all around and sticking incessantly. spring has left, and the summer is winding to its autumnal ending. there's chill in the air in the early morning, trees drooping. the new life of spring eases out with the flush of dullness in… Continue reading branch + spring + new life
summer flits over the horizon, air laden with the smell of fresh cut grass and shimmer of smog rising into nothingness. summer's colours are designated blue and green, painted the brightest that can still be seen. sometimes, it's almost unbearable. the weather softens, harsh brightness fading into soft blue and murky green, all… Continue reading summer + colour + control
summer has shifted into cool autumn, turning chilly and stormy in the blink of an eye, just minutes from steady sunshine. easter arrives with dull grey clouds and sheeting rain battering the roof. looks like a good day to stay indoors with books and coffee. thin foil wrappings are unravelled by deft fingers… Continue reading season + easter + unravel
the weather is indecisive. rain lashes at the roof even as the sky eases up, blue peeking through. five minutes later the temperature has dropped noticeably. it's good weather for a hot drink. every morning is crisp, clear blue sky and grass trimmed with light patches of frost. it's indecisive - can't seem to pick… Continue reading mixed seasons
ostentatious red pohutakawa blossoms appearing; late spring. thin needles scatter all over the car, drifting in cool summer wind. before christmas comes the red's faded; the tui finds elsewhere to sing.
Flash Fiction July, 30 There's a forest tucked away on the outskirts of the city. She doesn't go there often; only in winter, when it frosts over and she has to wear thick-soled hiking boots lined with extra socks and haphazardly-stitched in knitted linings. She pretends it's for the sheer beauty of the place, but it's… Continue reading In Wonderland
it catches me totally unaware. eyes carved from night sky, it is the first yet. hours lost to the study of something that's purely imagined. the second is equally subtle, written in autumn and winter. days now are lost here analyzing things better left alone. last is a favourite memory, by turns wistful and reminiscent.… Continue reading the illusion