Q. What’s black and white and red all over?
A. A sunburnt penguin.
I guess that that traditional gem becomes less and less appropriate as an answer as newspapers are now printed in colour, and, anyway, we tend to read them online as a never-ending rabbit hole of hyperlinks, not as a monochrome printed artefact. Continue reading “tiger tiger”
I’ve been recording the videos for a new online writing course with the working title “Creative Inspirations”. The course was born from the fact that, at some time in their life, almost every writer looks at a blank screen or a blank page and realises they don’t know how to get started.
For me, this happens quite regularly. Indeed, I could say it happens almost every weekend when it’s time to write a blog post. Sadly, although each class in the course will provide a new activity or insight to trigger ideas, I’m not sure it’s what I need for writing here; I do, however, hope it will be of use to other writers and poets who have hit a bit of a wall. Continue reading “butterfly thoughts & mindful musings”
Yesterday I wondered whether the dusty old magic carpet could still fly. Shortly after posting, I realised it didn’t really matter if it couldn’t, as I found this marvellous creature, who offered an equally valid mode of transport for any flight of fancy I might want to make: Continue reading “flights of fancy”
The Jersey Tiger moth seems to be doing it wrong:This makes me wonder about all the other creatures in the ivy hedge who have their camouflage right. Which makes lying in the hammock rather less enticing.
I never collected butterflies as a child, never owned a killing jar, never pinned spread wings flat on boards or boasted of my trophies to visitors. I did, however, own a butterfly net made from a piece of net curtain, a hoop of wire and a bamboo garden cane – well, maybe my brother owned it and I acquired it – which features in the poem Childhood posted last autumn.
I could also identify just about every adult butterfly in the book, though I was less expert when it came to caterpillars.Last week, then, when I came across the lovely creature in the photo, I knew it wasn’t a butterfly at all. It had to be a moth. In fact it’s a cinnabar moth, and common enough that I am surprised I’d never seen one before.
The final lines of the poem Childhood are:
The butterflies have flown away;
their colours paint my dreams.
I’m wondering now if in fact it is moths like this that add that dash of dream colour.