The Frost Maid (a mid-winter tale)


Born perfectly formed one cold, cold night

her crystalline features sparkled in the early light

Her beauty stole my breath

my warm air dying in the cold that dawn

my warmth melting into the ice clad ground


My heat is gone

taken by the frozen one who stole my heart

I tried to give her my warmth

to no avail

Her heart was made of ice


She took my breath and my warmth

it made no difference to her, but oh so much to me


I grow cold

so, so cold

Lost to this frozen landscape

the crystals forming over me

I am cold now

cold and ice

no heat left in me

She stole my all


Perhaps one day the sun will rise

will start to thaw this earth

Perhaps one day the sun will rise

will melt her frozen heart

Perhaps one day the sun will rise

will melt her heart and soul

 Perhaps one day the sun will rise


But it will be too late for me



Sometimes (a poem)

Sometimes the bravest thing I can do is to walk down the stairs.

You probably don’t realise that,

as you charge down behind me,

only to be slowed by this healthy-looking woman hugging the handrail as if her life depends on it.

“What was with her?” you might ask

as I reach the ground and hit my stride, taking off across the safe flat land.

You can’t see inside me

You don’t know what’s in my head

Six years ago it happened

A momentary lapse

A sudden change of life

Six years ago

I slipped on the stairs.

I bruised my butt

And I bruised my brain.

They call it post-concussion syndrome

Fancy words for what happens when your brain bounces inside your skull

Officially, I have fully recovered.

I am  healthy and normal

All my readings are fine

(as if I were ‘normal’ before)

When they assess your brain after a concussion there is no benchmark to who you were before… that was never tested. You’re ‘normal’ and ‘healthy’ if you fit the medically proven range…

(it doesn’t matter who you were before

you’ll never be that person again anyway)

Six years have passed, and I have apparently healed.

I function well.

You might never guess I’ve been severely concussed

(some scars can’t be seen)


don’t ask me to ceilidh dance, or lie down flat on the floor, or spin around a lot



don’t ask me to rush down the stairs.


A partial list of things I will do to avoid writing…

  • search for books about writing
  • fold socks
  • re-order my Pinterest boards
  • re-assess all of my 843 Etsy favourites
  • actually do housework
  • make cups of tea
  • sort through my pen collection
  • play Battle Cats on my phone
  • cruise Facebook and Twitter for clickbait
  • mine cobble for 3 hours on Minecraft
  • re-arrange the bookshelves
  • commit random acts of tidying
  • eat chocolate
  • play Solitaire on my phone
  • hunt for more biscuits
  • put away the clean towels
  • read tweets about writing
  • dust stuff
  • attempt to nap
  • play Forest Life on my phone
  • ponder the deep recesses of my soul (AKA gaze into space blankly)
  • take photos of clouds
  • think about taking photos of clouds
  • sort through photos I’ve already taken of clouds (and decide not to delete any)
  • read books because that’s almost the same as writing, isn’t it?
  • write a (partial) list of things I will do to avoid writing