Bubble

The bubble reflects
my dream so perfectly
it could be made of glass.
Perhaps it is made of glass
as the sharp leaves don’t break it.
it just rests there,
waiting.

Birdsong

I close my eyes
and listen
to the birds.
I can’t name them,
but I can still feast
on their song
for now.

Some sing beautifully,
others need to learn.
I sympathise with them,
I can’t sing either,
but It doesn’t matter.
No one will hear me
if I join in
now.

Cloth of Gold

I called it my cloth of gold
it was so special
with a bit of this
and a bit of that
remnants reclaimed
and woven with love
woven with tenderness
into a cloth of shining colours
making memories to wear
wrap round memories
like threads of time
for all our time,
memories
that
in time
became
our shroud.

I didn’t know it then.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues
of social justice and events, places and people she has known or
imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of
dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud
‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a
Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many
publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope
Review and So It Goes.

You can find more of Lynn’s work here on Ink Pantry.