Tag: Nature

Spate and Salt | Haiku

Waves crashing against a sea wall

From fresh to saltwater today in a couple of haiku…

A river rushing over boulders and pebbles.

Spate

Through spate and death-drought,

Boulders rounded, pebbles smoothed –

Cold river-crafted.

Waves crashing against a sea wall.

Salt

Salt murmurations.

Tops and troughs, feeling, pressing,

Weaving sea walls, slow.

Thanks for reading, folks. Second image courtesy of Greg Hartmann. My recent short stories include ‘Bellahouston‘ and ‘Echoes‘.

Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He has a Professional Doctorate in Education. Matthew blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.

Cling and Kick | Haiku

The first chill fingers of winter have crept round the door in Scotland this week. Two haiku to match…

Frost on the inside of a windowpane.

Cling

Intruder frost has crept

Inside, clinging latticed to

Frigid windowpanes.

Read more: Cling and Kick | Haiku
Empty wire birdfeeder

Kick

Windless swaying of

Just-left feeders, kicked into

Shy parabolas.

Thanks for reading, folks. My recent short stories include ‘Sunset Hours‘ and ‘November Cold‘.

Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He has a Professional Doctorate in Education. Matthew blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.

Sunset Hours | Short Story

The mountainside gloams around the man. He sees it in the dulling of the red-brown autumn heather. It is in the greying, the blueing of the chill air. It is in the sound of the ben quietening.

The man already knows what the evening, what the night will look like; he has seen it once before. Umber and steel and fathomless blue and breeze and movement and yawning space. The man also knows that he will not see nights beyond the one approaching.

Continue reading “Sunset Hours | Short Story” →