Dawn's ghostly whisper, dappled with rose-gold hues, seeps into inky skies. by Amanda Gilmour
In the gloaming sky, pink hues seep from sundown, while amber-tinged clouds bloom. by Amanda~Louise Gilmour
A sprinkle of stars burn into nightfall, veiling the moon's penumbra. by Amanda~Louise Gilmour
His ashes dust hills, feeding wildflowers, waltzing with wild winter wind. by Amanda~Louise Gilmour
In between shadows, moonlight illuminates cats fighting on spring grass. by Amanda~Louise Gilmour
Petal filigrees press stencil patterns on snow, echoing full bloom. by Amanda-Louise Gilmour
Atlantic waves slice the sun in half, a semi- circle melting. by Amanda Gilmour
Oriental lily stains the wings of a white butterfly, amber.
Stars fall over the pass of Drumochter, smudged grey as always, barren, desolate ‒ a world dropped dead into Dante’s Ninth. By the old railway, I cradle your urn, twisting the lid, scattering ashes that return on a wet wind wave, blinding me. As your particles speckle the yawning hills, my soul blinks behind gritted lids. Amanda-Louise Gilmour
Beneath susurrus snowflakes by lilting Mill burn, his going spawned silk rivulets glissading over wrist bone; echoing in pearly scars over crimson flowing vein, a gossamer reminder of his whispered nasal hymn. Narnia embellished summer dresses hidden silvered skin, beneath susurrus snowflakes by lilting Mill burn. Amanda-Louise Gilmour
The almost-morning, almost-dawn
Brushing blue cold from dark,
Staring out the wilder, furious stars,
Stalking night with gull-shrill cries.
At Munlochy Bay the wolfish grey
Grows steady silver, steady bright
Snapping teeth in jealous bid against
The clipped perfection of the moon.
By Kessock Bridge the blush of day
Runs sleek against the timid pink,
Runs deep with tinted, fierce intent,
To keep new dreams from breakingFrom breaking on the fractured light
In the blossom tree a crystal-spun web is ignited by sunrise.
Stars shine at twilight. Confetti sprinkled sky echoes in my eyes.
Snowdrops bud nightly peeking from the dirt, stretching in yawning clusters.
on a sleeping blossom tree
twinkling in the sun.
Hanging from the bough,
a solitary ice strand
bathes in dawning glow.
Badger Snowflakes rest upon the old badger, blanketing sleeping, open eyes.
He removes his vinyl records from the shelf and puts them into a cardboard box. ‘Living room’ is written across the side in black marker pen. He slides open a drawer in the sideboard, and takes out ‘his’ things.
“Coffee?” I say.
No reply. He’s standing with his back to me. I can see that several drawers are now open. God, that bloody annoys me. Why can’t he just shut one drawer before opening the next. I sigh, but he doesn’t react.
His shoulders slump forward, and I see that he is holding the little pink, velvet, chest. I pray that he won’t open it, but like Pandora, he can’t help himself. A rush of memories come tumbling out. I don’t need this. Our eyes meet, a message transmitted. He lifts the white baby booties from the bed of silk they lie upon. I can’t look, so I get up and walk into the kitchen.
The kettle bubbles and clicks off. I pour boiling water over the instant granules, taking my time to stir. I rinse the teaspoon. When I turn around, with both mugs in my hands, he steps in front of the doorway.
“James, please, I’m not in the mood for games!”
“What about these?” he asks, as he holds up the booties.
“What about them?”
“I thought we could keep one each,” he murmured.
“I don’t want it.”
“So, you don’t mind if I…”
“Do what you want, you always do anyway.”
He takes a step back, as if I’ve slapped him. I bang the coffee cups down, and brown liquid spills down the sides.
A film forms on the surface of the untouched coffee, as he continues to pack. I eye the boxes, and hope that he didn’t take the booties: they’re all I have left now.
He takes a suitcase out to his car. As the front door closes behind him, I rush over to the sideboard, pulling the drawer open. I open and shut the other drawers too.
“He’s taken them,” I say, closing my hand over my mouth.
The car door slams. I dash to the chair, curling my legs beneath me as I sit. Reaching forward, I grab my book from the table and open it.
He comes back in and lifts a box. Please don’t let the booties be in that box!
“Your book is upside down,” he says.
My cheeks flame, and he lays his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t,” I tell him, shrugging him off.
He leaves again. I’m on my feet again, pushing my hand into the nearest box, feeling about for the small chest. The door opens, and I pull my hand back, tearing the cardboard. If he has seen, he doesn’t let on and continues to take boxes and suitcases out to the car.
“Okay, that’s me. I think I have everything.”
I keep my eyes on the book. His keys jangle, and I hear the clink of metal being placed on the table by the door. He stays there for a moment and then he is gone. I go to the window, being careful to stand back so he won’t see me. Tears dribble down my cheeks, dripping off my chin. I don’t wipe them. The car starts. Several minutes pass before he pulls away. I watch him until he disappears at the end of the road. On the table, a solitary bootie lies beside his door key.
The original story can be found in Northwords Now – issue 37.
Threading Time Entombed in musty folds: dust enriched Banaras silk embroidered with golden yarn, forever echoing colonial rule for a century, a western charm. Wrapped in Mother’s cherish, dressing up death in opulent threads: tobacco-stained, dyed caviar-black, easing primal pain in cancerous dark. A homecoming gift, laden in rupees, sailing seas below winking skies as moonlight waltzes on jhallar edges caressing shining eastern essence. Intricate piercing of twilight material crafting flawless Mughal patterns with fine threads, trellis bound, snaring the weaver's soul. Amanda-Louise Gilmour