Last year, lost love

Milk-cow-maiden among the muses, never far from pensive mood. Even closer rumbled heather-bees. From Sochan summit the long bay, sweeping the roundhouse. Room among the stars then for the capricious centaur of love's arrows. This year's a different thing. I'll not think on you. Where did you go, Brighid? Did you expend your largesse under the hibernian reign of the Cailleadh? Did you hunker down perhaps among the humble, losing yourself in the modest haunts of the phoenix' ashen bones? Did you go to earth with Lumbricus terrestris, with slither slime and slip under the charred remains of hillsides? The snow the frost and the craze of frozen rain lodged in my heart until I was a broken totem, iced to the core and ravenous, without appetite except for excoriation. I eliminated you from my demesne, as so much shat out, excessive and extreme.

Copyright Kathy Labrum McVittie 13 February 2023

Merril, writing from dVerse Poets Pub, invites us on Prosery Monday thus:

“Prosery can be flash-fiction or creative non-fiction, but it is short prose no longer than 144 words in total (not including the title). It must be prose, not poetry (no versification, line breaks, meter, etc), and most importantly, it must include the given poetry line, word for word, within the prose. You may break the line and add punctuation, but you cannot change the words in the line or insert words”


“This year’s a different thing, –
I’ll not think of you.”

from Charlotte Mew (1869-1928): “I so liked Spring”