Dragons – by Linda Clark

 

I walk with him upon a stretch of sand; as ever, it is night.
Striding ahead in that old black coat of his,
he will not turn, and yet I would know his face.

He keeps to the path, which is narrow, and now and then
Sends sparks to the left or the right – die or ignite –
the red and then the blue.

You know who we are, he says.

As you decreed, the fight was to the death.
Thus did we bleed, her jaws around my neck, my flame in her throat:
We loved, but we always knew this to be our fate.

Our orders, if you please.

 

 

 

 

Linda still lives on a windswept island off the coast of Kent with a variable number of cats – currently twelve. She’s been writing poetry since the age of thirteen when she embarrassed her mother by getting a dreadful one published in the newspaper. It began ‘Spring throws bluebells in the sky…’

She has published three e-chapbooks available on Amazon, Seven League BootsIn The Memorial Gardens and Gladiators

Moths – by Linda Clark

moth3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All day they lie like corpses on sills, in corners
And masquerade as dust.

Night falls. I find them fluttering
Under my cats’ paws, describing perfect circles,
Their dance enticing
The very thing they fear,
Those longed-for claws.

Death cannot come too soon for them, it seems.
Rescued, they return. Consigned to darkness,
Cling to the window-glass,
Pink eyes afire with lust, the Undead, craving
That final, fatal light.

 

 

Linda lives on a windswept island off the coast of Kent with a variable number of cats – currently twelve. She’s been writing poetry since the age of thirteen when she embarrassed her mother by getting a dreadful one published in the newspaper. It began ‘Spring throws bluebells in the sky…’

More of her writing can be found at La Tour Abolie