Sam Peralta, for his swansong at dVerse poets’ pub, has written about prose and prose poems. I remember lots of prose that is more poetic than lots of poetry, but until this year I had not tried to write a prose poem. Bereft of new ideas, I searched my archive
and came up with this. Oh how good it would be if it were April now.
Smoke hangs still above the valley, for the winds of winter have calmed at last. The clouds have gone on strike today in promise of goodwill. A haze of green hangs heavy on the hawthorn hedge against minute bobbles of colour that may soon burst into bloom, scent the air, attract attention from shy endangered bees. Four noisy children, infidels of energy, climb the fence to greet the turtle, emerging from his winter shelter at the bottom of the pond. On dry land once more basking in sunshine, he will forget the months of struggle spent beneath late-leaving ice, to thrive once more, steal cherries, provoke his small friends into giggles and squeals of joy.
Bon courage for the novel, Sam