A piece of writing, for the writing of it. A fragment of something bigger. Is it prose? Prose poetry perhaps, just a short story or fluff and nonsense, let me know what you think.


Beneath the trees, in the layered green of a spring morning, I stand by the stream that runs through woods that have been lightly touched by rain. The slanted light of the sun is high enough to lift a mist, the ground glints and the stream has not collected enough water to be noisy. I am waiting for the young deer twenty yards ahead to notice me here, moments pass and birds call, we are both aware of a difference. Shadows cross the trunks of the trees, the smell of resin and rotted wood grows stronger with the day and the deer knows something is near. As he turns to find the difference between me and the background our cold breath rises, a simple light shadow in the air. I lean slightly to clear my view and he is gone into the bracken and bushes, where he waits then for me to move away. Going deeper into the shadows the damp leaves muffle my steps to try to catch sight of the creature but he is gone and I am once again walking in solitude. On an old track a building sits back and waits for entropy to finish, vines pull inexorably at the walls and the damp air has taken the framing, even the places we have been grow old while we look away. All the while the land has been rising and as I clear the woodland to walk across high meadows the weather is waiting for me to break cover, more patient than me in its stalking. A heavy mist has lowered itself and drips from everything, not rain yet, just wet to the touch. There is rain coming though, the air is colder, the wind moves with purpose towards lower ground and I follow the stream to its crossing of a track. The turning point and cloudburst, when it can no longer be contained and the long landscape drifts in and out of sight. I descend back into the shadows, I am lost to sight.

A question or two.

When you see the words written, do you look at the spaces?
Is this as it seems, A dream, a retelling, a metaphor?

6 thoughts on “Cloudburst

    1. Thanks, This is from notes quite a way back, and I have been working on it on and of, but this is the first time I have taken all the line breaks out and tried to see the progression in prose. But I love the visual, I am trying to write a picture because the moment was so silent and has stayed with me.



    1. Thanks for thinking about this, That line has been added recently, from notes written while I was visiting old haunts. It’s like looking in a mirror and realising you are not 20 anymore, a bit of a shock. 🙂

      The spaces I think control the speed and flow of the words round them, they are the framing of the picture. Looking away, yes, it is what happens when you turn your back, and time passes in the space you leave behind. An interesting return question.



Go on, tell me something, you know you want to.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s