The gentle essence of sleep leaves me now
I stretch away the cold snake of winter
that crept beneath the blankets open mouth
and curled around my slumberous splinter.

I listen for a short second to birds,
they sing of merriment and joyous days
a perfect orchestra requiring no words
existing through the melody of play.

I watch a lone drop of water diving
happy, into a pool of ecstasy
sporadic tip taps and gleeful sightings
I pause and drink in this reality

Rising with cold still upon my tired skin
I pull on a soft, worn, cashmere jumper
embracing now soft pinks and floral prints
I am the hushed tones of succubus amber

I try to recall the day I became this new essence of femininity
and decide it was always there in haze,
Hiding behind my broken fantasies.

I sit by the open window and see,
sleep has left me free from worries, concerns
and in the silence the serenity nurtures me
And I am at peace listening to the birds

Karen Hayward ©2019

Image via wordpress library

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

On silent whispers of Jack’s
nimble fingers she feels the frost
clawing at her innocence. Blind
eyes and deaf ears, the street
dancers set eyes on prey, and
move and swing, in ancient ways.
As Jack’s nails etch and sketch
permanent scars upon the souls
delicate skin, this veil, oh so thin.
Oh so thin, as darkness frosts
and etches…

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

Snow day wishes…

Cream clouds
crystalline wishes
diamond blankets
and snowflake kisses

A silent hush
glittered fantasies
Infinite sprinkles
Snow dream realities.

Blushed cheeks
Cold toes
Thick gloves
And a snowman nose.

United play
Giggles delight
Tears to be cried
Snowball fights.

Hot choc and ‘mallows
Festive shows
Snuggly blankets
The after snow, glow.

Karen Hayward ©2017

No claim to the image 

Morning frost and Sunday melodies. 

Morning mist sweeping through quiet streets, kissing frost embraced blades of luscious Green grass as a pale sun hides from sight, gathering Sunday morning thoughts on gentle melodies of songs gone by. And I watch the magpie, watching me and I know the ancient symbolism of its soul like the back of my expressive pen that pours ink haphazardly across the blank canvas of a soul awakening, sleeping, awakening and I hear the whispers of higher thought calling through droplets of dew quenching a thirst I cannot see and she is gone, her song echoing still…I watch the mist curling, swirling thick and heavy as an ancient, Druid perhaps, corner of my soul awakens at the soft call of home.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image found on pinterest. 

Winters kisses embracing my soul. 

In the hours of darkness as winters frozen fingers linger on my skin i listen to the silence that beats to an incessant drum. The skies lay without the glow of luminescent stars, the moon slumbers behind clouds of comfort, no birds singing a chorus of morning love. Just a darkness that spreads out before my eyes, no beginning no end. Winters kisses upon my skin, his embrace stilling the best of my heart, thoughts caught in a frozen pool of despair as I search the empty heavens for my sleep…And all that answers is the soft wisp of winters love  caressing my soul. 
Karen Hayward ©2017

Soft gentle memories. 

Winter brings new 

memories of old, 

the air scented with 

bonfires, log fires, 

first kisses, 

Tear filled goodbyes, 

cold legs and glances shy. 

Waning moons

Teardrops on ebbing 

Tides. Dark skies 

Oh the dark skies that 

Whisper to my soul 

‘you are home. Oh 

You my dear are home.’

Crystalised frost 

Beauty where only 

The devil plays, 

 And the soft gentle 

Echo of memories lane. 
Karen Hayward ©2016

Pale sun embracing.


Have you ever felt the way

the pale winter sun reaches

deep within the soul?

Gold dust sprinkled across

crisp white whispers of winter.

Droplets of dew kissing the boughs

of dying trees lost leaves

aging beneath our feet.

Soft skies promising a silent echo

as winters queen caresses

our blushing cheeks.

Her gentle kisses, frozen embrace and

love formed from the purest lace.

Have you ever felt the pale sun

or crisp morning air beneath

gentle skies as robins fly?

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)