Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Re Reading Old Words

Once again I’m re-reading old words
rereading them
over and over again
like comfort eating
to avoid the shock
of the new.
Re-read
review
like an album of old photographs
of people locked in their past
still located there
living there
dead
history in a flash
gone in a flash
brought back
to life
dead
renewed on a treadmill
turning
round and round
on a loop
replaying
endlessly
returning like old clothes 
kept for comfort 
to be worn again
like re-read words. 
The new rejected
neglected
shut out
so I can languish
in the comfort
zone of the old
dead words
for ever.

**First published in Praxis, April 2019**

To The Passing Of The Nightingale

Where are the songs of spring?
Aye, where are they?
Well, Mr K,
they are harder to find
than they were in your day.
Gone with the nightingale,
Gone with the meadows,
the hedgerows,
the woods,
The habitats lost, 
destroyed.
Destroyed like the food
that people call pests.
Predated. 
Predated by farmers, 
one way or another,
the countryside’s guardians, 
that’s what they say.
The spring singing has ended,
almost over and done.
Aye, you might well ask, Mr K
The singing is not as it was
in your day.

**First published in Anti Heroin Chic, August 2017**

Dandelion Seed

There's a dandelion seed
caught in your hair.
A fluffy wisp of white and grey
hanging there, 
suspended
in your frothy crown.
A shimmering seed held
like a star in a wiry halo 
made by the light.

Blow it away.

Perhaps you will,
if I tell you it's there.

Blow it away.

But it looks so beautiful
suspended there.
I won't tell you.
I'll just admire it's beauty
as it hangs
in your hair.

Blow it away.

No, I won't.
It will leave soon enough.
Best not to rush these things.
Who knows where
they will end up

after all.