Poems & Prose

Sunset on the Cliffs of Faja (Sally Cross) HAPPY EARTH DAY TO YOU ALL! 🌿🏝️🌿 OF MEADOWS, OCEAN AND FLAME Sally Somerton She is not quiet, this Mother of earth, she hums through each meadow in blossom and birth. In wildflower fields bright colours run free, she dances through petal, through root, and through tree. The elders stand tall in their slow, steady grace, with branches that reach into light-filled space. Their roots w

Sally Somerton, Island Writer I find myself wondering, not for the first time, and likely not the last, when exactly it was decided that the quiet tending of the porcelain throne would fall, as gently and persistently as limescale, into the hands of women. Not announced, of course. Nothing so dramatic. No ceremony. No ribbon-cutting. No ancient decree etched into stone beside laws of land and lineage. Just… a slow seep. A drip, perhaps. Like a tap not fully turned off. One da

Sally Somerton - Island Writer A fibro flare begins the day, deep joy… hip hip hooray. (We laugh, because truly, what else can we do?) I waddle, yes, waddle , down to garden and vine, chasing movement, in hope of loosening this reluctant spine. The air is kind, at least. The earth is steady beneath me. But my muscles protest regardless, a chorus of no, not today. Still… I try. Because stopping entirely feels far worse than moving slowly on. Back inside, the reality settles, a

A Dear Diary Ditty... Sally Somerton  Ah… it must be 3am. Or edging closer to 4, I’m sure. Because there it is again, my mind, wide awake, knocking far too loudly at my door. Not a polite tap. No gentle suggestion. But an urgent insistence, Now. Write this now. So I fumble in the dark, pen scratching across paper balanced on the edge of sleep, trying to catch the thoughts before they scatter like startled birds. Ideas spill, half-formed, luminous, demanding, as if they’ve bee

Sally Somerton, Island Writer. The page waits. It always does, Calm, composed, Slightly smug. Meanwhile, The writer does not. There are, at last count, seven books, maybe more. Seven Plus! Not written, you understand. Not finished. Not published. Oh no. Started. Each one is brilliant, obviously. Each one demands my attention. Each one arriving at precisely the moment Another was about to make progress. Because why finish a book When can I begin another? Outside, the pink moon