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He’s wearing his close fitting, rather special coat.

The one with the hole in the stone in its pocket

and a penny in the lining

for when the luck runs out.

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The cloth, designed by Alchemy

is threadbare but performing.

There are no proper holes

that his holey stone can fall through.

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Each ninth stitch

is a backstitch to remind him

of the benefit

of early interventions.

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But every time he wears it

he becomes a better ghost;

an apparition of his very best intentions.

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Copyright: Lorraine Voss

Slicing white and purple light

blazing fork trails to the earth.

Backlit cloud and crackling sounds

arc the sky for all it’s worth.

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A distant Reynard raised alarm!

then eerie quiet and breathless calm

followed on from stair-rod rain

which threatened more to come again.

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The thunder rumbling, distant, far.

The beating drums of raging Thor.

The ‘oos’ and ‘ahhs’ through open doors.

The pleasant scent of petrichor.

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A fox again, but less distressed.

a tired Thor resumes his rest,

and all is quiet and all is still

among the Welsh, Llanwrtyd hills.

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Pay it forward every time;

let it be a habit.

When a wonder happens

roll it onward down the line.

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Give it to a neighbour

or some random frowning stranger.

Pass it on and on and on

and watch it raise a smile.

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See it put a twinkle

in the eyes of little people.

Watch it make a tired man

walk the extra mile.

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Keep it while you need it

but be sure to pay it forward.

I’ve heard it springs eternal

if you nurture it a while.

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Copyright: Lorraine Voss

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Throw another poem on the fire, Uncle Bob.

Burn a Dante epic;

do a proper job!

Let it smoulder ’til we’re older

than Methuselah or God.

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Throw the works of Homer on the pyre, Uncle Bob

and everything by old romantic liars

or Welshmen fuelled by whiskey

who were flammable and risky

and full of rage I’ll wager, Uncle Bob.

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Draw them from the ashes with a wish, Uncle Bob;

remember in the embers there’s a song

about ritualistic burning

and the learning and the yearning

of those who came and went,

or lie in wait to come along…

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Copyright: Lorraine Voss

It was tender, like a fontanelle;

soft and warm as kitten fur

and weightless as the powder

from a pili pala wing.

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It was utterly contented purr

a metaphor to comfort her,

light on her skin, like gossamer,

that cwtch that came with the crio.

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Translation: Welsh to English

pili pala – butterfly

cwtch – cuddle

crio – crying

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Copyright: Lorraine Voss