Skip to main content

Hydrangea Blue by Laura Brinson

I remember them well
those great balls of blue
in the shady corner 
down the side of the house

Mum watered them with a secret

recipe she mixed up in the shed

it made them that special hue

in neighbours’ gardens all were pink


with my siblings I played tea parties

with the fresh bright leaves

as big as dinner plates

on spongy grass in a circle with our dolls 


I pose beside the massive mopheads

in the dress with sprigs of wild flowers

hydrangea blue collar

daisy lace trim


in my palm I can still feel

the silky touch of sun-limp petals

captured in black and white

no one will ever know

the magnificence of those blooms of blue


---


Laura Brinson is a Melbourne-based writer. She is also a seamstress and a gardener and was reading regularly at open mic events when that was a thing! In lockdown she is very happy that her workroom looks out on greenery and catches the morning sun. Her poetry and prose has been published in Australian and International journals of poetry.


Comments

  1. You have a genuine capacity to compose a substance that is useful for us. You have shared an amazing post about tea. Much obliged to you for your endeavors in sharing such information with us. buy cbd tea usa

    ReplyDelete
  2. I am definitely enjoying your website. You definitely have some great insight and great stories.
    write my assignment uk

    ReplyDelete
  3. Recently I read your blog and it was very good. I'm really impressed with this blog. The content was really appreciating. Thanks for sharing this. bmh architects Auckland

    ReplyDelete
  4. Very Good, This is excellent information which is shared by you. This information is very meaningful and magnificent for us to increase our knowledge about it. Always keep sharing this kind of information. Thank you. Read more info about roofing contractors st george utah

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time

Smoking and Swearing by Ian Manson

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene

This morning I wanted to send you a photo essay: The Year in Volcanic Activity by Marisa Silva-Dunbar

You’d see the beauty in a fountain of lava, fires spreading across the blacktop, the necessity of creation after destruction. I drink tea—try to swallow my suspicions with lemon and honey, the bright sweetness doesn’t stop my obsession with destruction. Monday, I will try not to disintegrate—try to unravel the lies, how you once wanted a weak girl who shared the same type of destruction. I find ways to eviscerate your former paramours in conversation with others; I have been leisurely indulging in my own destruction. Sometimes I want to spill the secrets that I keep from you; I see ghosts around every corner—they poke at my fear of destruction. My anxiety is death by a thousand cuts—yours a slow suicide; we do our own dances with the Grand Dame and Varlet—Destruction Even on the days when I rage alone, I long for the nights curled next to you tracing sigils on your back to protect you from self-destruction. Archetypes sewn in my bones—I’ve mast