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Lucy Hay

Waking to Snow

They woke, and all they saw through eyelashes
Feathered with frost, was snow. It drifted in
Through windows wide to the air, and spinning
Slowly, fell on them lighter than wishes.
Their breath froze on the air in cold delight
And settled with the crystals of the snow
In soft patterns upon the eiderdown.
Nothing else disturbed the sun-bright quiet.
They will sleep on in a world fixed in ice,
Warmed by the winter’s diamonds and sapphires.



Charlemagne’s Daughters

‘Although the girls were very beautiful and
he loved them dearly, it was odd that he did not
permit any of them to get married either to a man
of his own nation or to a foreigner. Rather he kept
them all with him until his death, saying he could
not live without their company. And on account of
this, he had to suffer a number of unpleasant
experiences, however lucky he was in every other
respect. But he never let on that he had heard of
any suspicions regarding their chastity or any
rumours about them.’
Einhard, Vita Karoli Magni, chapter 19.

Charlemagne’s daughters sit and spin,
Watched by a fond father.
He cannot read their thoughts, but rather
Hopes they turn to him.

Charlemagne’s daughters sit quietly,
But their thoughts escape to other rooms
Where knights and squires, scullions and grooms,
Are waiting for them, patiently.

Charlemagne’s daughters dream of night
And the secretive darkness,
And an escape from being on Highness
And from unsparing daylight.

Charlemagne’s daughters are discreet
On the whole. And if there is whispering
In court, the king’s hearing
Becomes suddenly, curiously, less clear.

Charlemagne’s daughters sit and spin,
Watching their fond father.
Knowing he loves them, and loving him, they gather
Up their silks, and weave their dreams on satin.



Sonnet

More than anything, I dream of flying.
I see the slope beneath, see myself leap
Down, cannot shake the belief that, falling,
I will land safe on all fours, or else keep
On going, sustained by some kinder air.
Sometimes, I even think that gravity
Yearns for the change of scene, offers a dare
To defy its heavy authority.
So, in my dreams, I continue to fly.
I spring from rocks, across abysses, and
Float, leaf-like, upon the currents of my
Longing. Only when I choose, I land –
I wait for light, shadows falling downhill.
Sometimes, half-awake, I feel airborne still.



Small Weed with Delusions of Grandeur and Despotic Tendencies

I want to take over the whole lawn.
I want to cover the grass in white and yellow dots.
I want to make a daisy-chain to stretch a thousand times from here to the moon and back.
I want to stay open all night, not hide away, pink-tipped with shyness.
I want to be a brothel for the bees, open all hours, licensed to sell all the pollen I want.
I ain’t a lazy daisy, I’ve got my sights on the big green.
I’ll be the nemesis of every lawn-mower known to man.
I’ll be the bane of every heart-sick lover, ‘He loves me, he loves me not’ , there’ll be so
many of me, she won’t be able to stop plucking petals.
I refuse to sit down and be a weed – I’m standing up to be counted – I may have a yellow
heart, but I’m as brave as any red-hot poker.
I may be short, but I’ll make up for it with floor-space – small is beautiful.
The grass may be greener on your side, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s white and gold
forever.
I hear them muttering, ‘Crazy daisy, crazy old daisy’ , but I say,
‘Long live the daisy!’
‘Soon may the daisy come!’


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The creative-writing.ch Showcase section features writings by several workshop participants. The following authors all have their separate pages:

Matt Kimmich

Nicolette Kretz

Margret Powell-Joss

Sara Probst

Matthias Rüegger

Sripriya Sitaraman

Hans-Jürg Suter

Brigit Zogg