
Thick suit of armour
oak bark wearing week-old moss
faces axe bearers

Thick suit of armour
oak bark wearing week-old moss
faces axe bearers
The director-playwright lay under the raised curtain, surveying it to make sure it wasn’t creased. The manager had done that the night before. And again in the morning. But it didn’t hurt to check again.
Actors rushed around, muttering dialogues, rehearsing, buckling belts, fixing wigs. His eyes crinkled as he smiled to himself, proud.
Suddenly, he froze. His eyes widened as the curtain rod came hurtling towards his head.
He could only stare.
An inch away, it stopped. โYou should be more careful, you knowโ came an unfamiliar voice from backstage. The one whoโd become his wife.
He let his breath out.
I wrote this little story in July 2014. I found it in my drafts while cleaning out my blog, and I figured it was worth a polish and publish.

I wake to a glow
alien pink filters in
my window at five

Tiny Christmas lights
bringing joy to street corners
Pลhutukawa.

Afraid, I hold back
leaping into the unknown;
trying new coffee.