Jane, et al: No dragon microfiction in me this week. So some prosetry fragments and musings about dragons, sans golden egg. I’ve enjoyed the other dragon tales I’ve read. (Photo ©Grantscharoff)
Could it be . . .
leathery wings
pattern of light and dark as a cloud passes over the garden
hot breath
faint whiff of brimstone in fetid, still, humid air
spiked tail
prick finger on thorns of rose and berry bushes
scaled, scared skin
weather-worn hands; time-worn apron
I flew with the dragons, once
Skraeling through Woods
along Farbeyond Shores
o’er
Grislebane Mountains
wind in my braids
sun on my skin
clouds in my mouth
hold tight, hold tight
head to head, neck to neck
feel the power
work sinew and flap down
work muscle and flap up
kite sail, tail down and
we roll, roll, roll
my breath behind me
now my life behind me
shadow passes, radiant circle
could it be . . .
November 25, 2016 at 6:22 am
Lovely poem.
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November 25, 2016 at 8:01 pm
Thank you. I couldn’t seem to find prose for Jane’s image, but the prosetry came flowing out. : ) :
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November 24, 2016 at 8:17 am
This is lovely! Reminds me of Barbara Hambly’s character in Dragonsbane.
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November 24, 2016 at 11:03 am
Thank you, Jane. Prose just wasn’t flowing. I love the other stories this week. Wonderful choice for an image — we all needed some lightening up I think.
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November 24, 2016 at 11:21 am
It’s not all beer and skittles here either with the opposition to Marine Le Pen slogging it out. If that’s the choice, God help us.
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November 24, 2016 at 12:09 pm
It’s scary everywhere. There seems to be a darkness settling o’er the land . . .
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November 24, 2016 at 12:22 pm
Maybe it was always there. After all, these are free votes in democracies. Who can we blame?
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November 24, 2016 at 1:27 pm
“We have met the enemy and he is us.” Pogo
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November 24, 2016 at 2:26 pm
That just about sums it up.
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