Briar+Poetic+Writing



__Grandad Mac__
A small forest falls at his feet, Rimu, Totara, Kauri. He carves them all into beautiful art, into bowls and pot and sculptures. Sweat runs down through his thick, salt and pepper hair, and gets lost in the remnants of long forgotten smiles, that once lit his face with joy. An old, black dog lies at his feet, her thick fur collecting sawdust as her master works, labouring over his beautiful carvings.

Mac smiles lightly when he looks down at his dog, and he chuckles as he realises the many things they have in common. They are both strongly loyal and kind, they both are weathered and tough, and they are both, old dogs.



__Flower on Fire__
The flower filled meadow is as black as ash In the slowly darkening day.

Slowly, the last light of day filters through the dark canopy, Alighting its golden fingers upon one small flower,

The tiny flower turns its face towards the golden light, Yearning for that last drop of warmth, To cradle it in the cold night ahead.

In the final moments of day Bright light sparks from the brilliant sun, Sending golden rays of fire sparking through the smoky air.

The flower stretches slowly forward Straining on its tender roots, Reaching for the golden ball of fire.

In one final flash of golden light, The burning sun, like melting gold, Sinks below the burnished hills,

But in that final moment of brightness, That small insignificant flower Is on fire.

My Poetic Writing Reflections


“//If I climb up into heaven thou art there. If I make my bed in hell, Behold thou art there also. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea even there also shall thy hand lead me and thy right hand shall hold me”// These words pierced deep into my heart as I gazed at the beautiful but devastating sculptures that were scattered around the Passchendale exhibit. Disembodied hands reaching out for help, soldiers from different countries with one leg each helping each other to walk, a soldier carrying his wounded fellow to safety on his back, and a dove of peace with a grenade for its egg, the grenade-pin lying beside it. Photo’s of how things were and how things are, devastated landscapes full of mud smoke and death. Beautiful pictures of flourishing forests and ruins of castles. Photo’s of the bodies of soldiers, unidentifiable and unreachable, lost to the greed of war. Some things can heal, but many can’t.
 * __ Passchendale Exhibit __**