Autumn mists

Love me, love me not?
Unanswered questions
swirl in autumn mists.
Love beyond language,
unspoken, sudden;
tastes of autumn leaves
linger in his kiss.
Platitudes flutter
in the restless undertow.
Won’t watch the crows
or the curve of their slow flight.

This is when the change came;
the snow held me in her drifts.

by Louise


Somewhere Unknown

Dusk has fallen. She takes the first touch
of a book, opening to breathe in its scent,

fingering through pages, letters bleeding
across paper, words wrapped round her tongue.

There is ink and blood and she is bound
between its covers, captured within images

that lay huddled by the yellow lamp. Outside
the room, bat wings catch the moonlight.

An owl cries. She’s settling for the night,
hunger fed until dawn glances

through the forest skyline, stepping
from this world to the next still crouched

in her dreaming mind, with a poem
lifting off to somewhere unknown.

by Louise

This poem has also been recorded by the wonderful Abigail @The_Linnet and can be heard here

Written for dVersePoets Open Link Night (it’s Tuesday again already!) ~ hosted by the wonderful poet Claudia Schoenfeld

Secret gardens

‘Artspiration’ by Bonnie of Original Art Studio

There is a secret
hidden in the garden
like a giant tree,
its roots twisting deep
into moist unsettled earth.
I float away
under its cool shade,
as his eyes look right through me,
startling green.
My wings
beat against his breath,
the arc of a branch
bending, curled around
his body
as I touch the sky,
sinking deeper….


it  swallows us both.


by Louise

The Dance







Blue is the mood that crackles the air,
my clothes strewn across your floor.

The sky holds me as you do
with naked hands, a touch so light.

You are behind me, everywhere at once
as I watch endless eyes fade into the gloom,

dusk wrapping its tendrils around my waist.
I’m breathing fast,
listening to vibrating winds
splash the sky with brilliant hues.

I lose the enemy of the child inside.
Your touch is a splinter in my skin.


by Louise

“Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.” ~ Romeo and Juliet