I am a sheep, clearly. But here is the current opening to The Drowning Kings, in poetic mode.
Someone was waiting.
The certainty struck Owain just as
the first riders crested the hill.
He set his heels to his horse’s flank, urging the mare forward.
Her shoulder bounced
off the flank of the horse in front,
setting it stamping and snorting.
Its rider swore at him as he passed.
He shook his head,
shoving on past the next rider and the next,
on up the slope towards the king.
Keeping a wary
distance from the stamping hooves,
Gif let out an excited yip
and charged after him
Something up ahead.
Aude was six when the earthquake hit.
She had run away
from nurse and the imminence of face-washing time,
to kick her way through the multi-coloured leaves
that carpeted the shrubbery.
Though autumn was well-advanced,
enough foliage still clung on to hide
a person of her size quite satisfactorily.
She wriggled her way through the tangled twigs
of her favourite bush
to her special private place against its trunk, and hugged her knees.
Her hands, in their green worsted mittens,
worked their way under the cuffs of her brown coat.
The light was fading,
turning the sky beyond the shrubbery
Grass King sequel
‘to influence public opinion.
To lead it, if possible.’
Shifting against the cushions at her back,
she looked across
at her husband Jehan,
and added, ‘How do I do that, do you think?.’
Jehan suppressed a smile.
Nothing – not her five months of pregnancy,
not the distance that still separated them from home,
not the problems that doubtless awaited them there
– could persuade his wife
to set boundaries on her intentions.
Told you I'm no kind of poet.
I'm off in about half an hour to visit the parents and then go castling in honour of the marquis' birthday (which is Saturday). I may get online, but I'm not sure: back on Sunday evening.
Skirt of the day: jeans.