The sea knows
loss, its ancient suspirations inhale
terra firma grit by grit

The sea knows
abyssal hobgoblins well up
from their deep-rutted trenches
even on sunshiny days
they manifest their stinking grotesquery
on sabulous shores

The sea knows
never sleeps
is always sighing

Like you the sea knows
some things
are worse
than dying.

© 2018 Karen Price



Weekly Photo Challenge: Scale

bb - scale

Red Bishop – Kwazulu – Natal, South Africa


Beauty at scale rarely seen
by human eye, but inbetween
lush blades of grass daily spy
a microworld of strange small fry

As this mini-jungle wakes
from dark of night, a lone ant slakes
his thirst from fresh dewdrops bright
reflecting snails in love’s delight

Airfields of apian craft at ready
take flight from rouged poppies, heady
with blue jewels sparkling far and wide
on backs of bees on buzzing ride

A mighty dung beetle battles
sticks arresting rolling chattels
from onward journey, this daily testing
to construct his place of resting

Inkblot-eyes of springtails watch
(in somersault) nymphs slowly hatch
themselves from deep and watery vault
and caterpillars as they moult

A miniverse that’s quite astounding,
with creatures, strange and weird, abounding.


For more entries to last week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Letters

I was born in an era of typewriters, snail-mail letters, no mobile phones, no emails, no personal computers. I still write letters by (untidy) hand and send them through the post. I’ve a treasure trove of letters written to me over a lifetime stashed away in my kist, including a love note from my husband, typed on a typewriter on a phone message note about 25 years ago :-), and a wonderful letter from a stranger regarding my father’s death notice in the newspaper.

And a few years ago, I discovered the many letters and postcards I’d written to my youngest niece over the years after I emigrated adorned the inside of her cupboard doors – she’d kept them all. We both prize what people have taken the time to write with us in mind.

There is one letter, though, that really breaks my heart when I re-read it now. It’s from a boy who grew up in South Africa in the years just after Apartheid officially ended. His name is Freedom and, at the time that he wrote this letter, he was a child without very many worldly possessions at all, but he was loved, and was full of joy and hope. And, as his letter shows, he had a genuine appreciation for so very little. bb-lettersFreedom’s mum, widowed early in her marriage, worked beyond hard to give him a good education, and she had high hopes for his future. He is now a young man but, unfortunately, due to some nefarious influences and bad choices, his life isn’t turning out so well.

My 5 picks from this week’s photo challenge at The Daily Post:


Is the scent

of an ancestor’s skull kicked
down a bush runway –
an elephant remembers

bones and dust,

the echo of hyena
comedy nights, jaws
on buffalo bones

chalk and dust,

a tall silhouette beyond the runway
a blind man – inhales the dusk
for ghost-lions
before crossing to light
the camp fire

blood and dust

in the dark, leopards
gaze at embers
of an ancient story

fate throws the bones,
a plane flies

into a hillside

flesh and blood,
bones and dust,

and creosote.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Home

“Home is where the heart is.
Home is so remote.
Home is just emotion
sticking in my throat.

Let’s go to your place.”

Lene Lovich


The decor of this Sydney restaurant is a colourful reminder of the linguistically and culturally rich country that was my home from birth to mid-life.





My favourite from this week’s challenge was this one from Jo Bryant.

See The Daily Post for more photographic interpretations of ‘Home’.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Possibility


is always

a possibility

Apartheid Museum – Johannesburg, South Africa

‘The next thing you think, the next action you take will either create possibility for you or it will repeat the past’
Deepak Chopra



on a shimmering day,

I saw the sea fly up

Llandudno Beach

and swallow our sunwashed

detritus –

faded towels, Hang Ten slops, trashy

novels, footprints


as we scramble-watched

it from the boulders,

churning back out to the horizon

with the indigestion

of our lives,

not looking back

to wave