http://slow.writerscafe.org/christinemulvey The original writings of author Angela Mulley en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775990557 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Listen carefully,here's the reasonwhy birds and flowers fair,unseen about the garden;though it be the same sky there.In the morning when it started,one bright and sunny day;while there beside a wall,a hole much bigger lay.Hole to wall subsided,until the sky restored,that which flower and the flierha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/810619/ In the midstof an emptyroom, nought surrounding there but walls;I sang out a cheerful tune and the sound of an echo called.I wondered then how I could tell the thing it was that started, since present could&nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/748508/ Night asidefrom mid of day,as dawn isto the gloaming.But how come they,how away,if they had notlegs for roaming?Near and far,far and wide;time--you see,is biggerthan the sky.In days beforethe rain began,someone saw it coming;chasing rainbowsas he ran,from the beat ofbig drops drumming.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/748420/ While in the garden,I look to the sky;flowers,treesstillas clouds go by.The house is also in the garden;and the street too.Birds,flitting across air,singingmerry songs, far and widebetween the gap in thewooden fence,I realiseI've been here some time. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/742691/ For each roommust be a door,else it wouldbe no room at all.If open, close,hang on the walland come nor gowere big nor small.Where would grass and flowers grow,if not earth as such we know? http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/742689/ Don't get upit's still night.Cool winds,grass,frosty landscapes.You,them,the days;dreaming,sleeping,dreaming.Glistening hills and silhoettes,a metaphor;Things you've never seen,stretched daysthat never were.Purple skies.Birds riseand the sound of the milk cartarrives. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/738533/ I went into the woodslate one afternoonthe sun had set upon the grassand birds whistled out a tune.These places ever change,day to day not one the same.Something somewhere lies a wonder--curiosity's aim.It was early in the springbut alone I was notsince I saw a pretty flowerthat winter had forgot. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/725414/ Spring emerged.Rain dripped anddropped; fast atfirst; then becameslow, which from adistance might givethe impressionof a summers dayknocking at your door...Or the sound of hearts,beating. Then floatingsounds (or butterfliesperhaps) clouds, sanguineover hills. Then autumnand north wind blows a disson.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/725413/ If, stood on the edge of townyou looked out across the landwhere mountains resembled specks,the sun a grain of sand. I could lay my head upon a cloudwave to birds way in the sky.-And as you moved I suddenly foundyou wiggle beneath the wire. Further in the distance,between the sky and seayo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/725158/ I imagined one day,a few years back,a piece of paper and a pencil;which I took to my handand began to draw the outlineof a boat sailing on water.There were no people on this boat; but I,being the observer imagined that there might be;A tall dark haired gentleman,his eyes sparkling with the gleam of .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/724555/ Autumn leaves fell from treesas the north wind blew,to a place -- previouslyonly grass and flowers knew.Then land began to freeze--later came the snow,which turned to a muddy poolwhen ice began to thaw.Spring revealed an April greyabove hills and flowers blue,a colour--previouslyonly clear, cold ski.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/698408/ Frozen in time.Each step,each secondset apart.A door neitheropened norclosed, no endand no start.How far had I really been?Place to place all day long.Spring born of starry-night,a verse filled with sun and song.What is this place I know?--And I know is not a dream.Yet somehow from step to step,a pl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/698406/ We tried for hours to fix the fault, but we couldn’t even locate it.  One would not think such an invention with the ability to travel beyond galaxies could suddenly break down and leave it’s crew stranded without so much as a radio signal to gain contact.  Hopefully, I thought.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690324/ Next morning on hasterick, we climbed aboard Glackso 4, then zoomed through the vastness of space, past galaxies and stars of all shapes and sizes.  It was like I had looked through the lens of a kaleidescope with greens, reds and yellows that inter-mingled through the sheer speed of the craft... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690318/ It was summer, two earth years had past and I was outside of the Deborg laboratory in Kelwin. My life had already changed a great deal since my arrival on Juan twenty fourth, the only thing to do was get on with it, since for all of us mutants, there was no way back.Kelwin, also known as Arashmack w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690315/ There was fighting… there was a lot of fighting.  Although it wasn’t because of a lack of money, or food even… there was plenty of that.  After the Teptrons left with the last lot of mutants, some of those who believed humans should have stayed to suffer their fate set .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690312/ They didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger.  It seemed the aliens had obviously come up with a plan to gain control of the investigation.  I had to get to Shirley and tell her what had happened.  What I didn’t get, was exactly what they had planned to do once the real .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690310/ The next day I sat drinking coffee, when I decided I would take a trip to the site.  I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I went under the guise that I was going to check on my house.  The heat around the park was immense.  It was winter, but even steam rose from the asphal.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690307/ Monday morning.  Six thirty am.  Mrs Wentworth, the cleaner, rustled her keys through the door of the office.  She mumbled some things to herself before she turned around then jumped when she saw me.  ’My goodness detective’, she said.  ’You nearly gave me .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690305/ I went into the bathroom and tried to wake myself up.  My hair wouldn’t stay straight and the bags under my eyes were visible.  I looked awful. When I realised that no amount of preening or coffee was going to help, I tied my hair into a bun behind my head and went out of the door. &.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690303/ We’d took our seats opposite the window, which was probably not the wisest choice, since the sun shone very bright that day.  Shirley gazed out and admired the veiw.  My eyes followed hers, and I saw a long line of traffic north of the cafeteria.’  ‘You might as well.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690298/ It was a stormy night.  The rain fell hard against my window as I lay covered in a sheet.   In the corner I could just make out the box of files and next to it was my television.  I don’t know why it was there, I hardly got any time to watch tv at all, but then I’d aquired.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690293/ The first few days of October brought a strong wind that swept across England. It nipped the overgrown rose bush, and the birch tree that stood helpless in it’s plight to stand tall. There were rose and holly bushes everywhere you could look. Mainly, they were crammed into planters at the fron.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690291/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/690289/ But I already loved you.Already you were mine.  Even before we came to here...   Don't you see? Already you were made for me. I never really saw a sky,  nor a moon in the window hang.  I never felt love creep upon me.I never held your hand.   Yet I knew y.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/672789/ The river still rolls along the embankment,and the grass still grows upon the hill.The clouds, they come and they go, changing form to form, until they burst and turn to rain, to roll the embankment a river again. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/672355/ Winter chases autumn downstream, and the future it is but a dream.-Neither one quite catches the other.And if it did...  What hands would be so great?When we too are the changing of seasons,one MUST face with sideways glance.The tighter the gripthe quicker it's escape.Without it all we sto.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/672353/ When I get to that place beyond the hill,I see the grass taller and greener still.I see streams flowing between rocky edgeand blustery winds stifle leaves and sedge.I see the rain, I see sleet and I see snow,as deeper yet into these hills I go.But will the sun shine bright beyond that cloud?And will.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/667965/ keep going keep goingkeep going  keep goingkeep goingkeep goingStop.Once the world was thought of as flatand while this concept no longer applies,this thing called life, lived in circleswheels down the road til a corner arrived.Seemed there was nowhere else to turnalmost like the way had c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/667627/ I know this momentwill never be just the same.-For me anyway.  And so she turns.  Spring.  Like a gush of wind, or a sidways glance.  Not quite the dance across a ballroomfor one so timed, but still.  I'd barely drew my breath before summer.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/664590/ I see the grass.I see it's green.I see the leaves that fell from trees.I see the landscape.I see the road.I see the house where had been the snow,white and speckled in it's waning glow.Where once the streets stood stillnow the staccato rhythm,the sound of footsteps.  Distant, expired.Like those.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/655455/ I awoke one day as mother said to me,"will you go to the shop, just behind the tree?It's not too far but be back by three,because I need those snails to cook for the tea.Away I went, headed for the tree,after a short while, realising I was free...I flew away over the hills and dales,I'd almost forgo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/651338/ What dart of equilateral sides,pierced my heart from the skies?And when my heart began to bleed,Withdrew the earth from my feet?For what beauty, and what liesof winter face and leaf-shaped eyescame creeping in from the nightso soft the heavens heard my sighs?Or the crimson cheeks of the sun when set.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/649739/ What of the grass?What of it's green?What of the leavesthat fell from their trees?What of the landscape?What of the road?What of the house?You could see it before.Before the snow came,now it's caught on the door.But when spring arrives, what of the snow? http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/649409/ There's a calmness in the speed of days.In the turbulence of jovian ways,  as he ever silently in his age, just as our nights are when at their height.  Perhaps he can hear the voice of Mars,  as he tells him to look towards the stars,iambic and fleeting 'til his eye,  .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/648497/ As if in a split second your line unfolds,with each time a little less quick than the last.But there is a start at the end of this road, it's set on the weight at the end of your cast. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/647337/ There he goes happily beneath the waves,With the other fish reflecting the light-From his scaly skin he swims with his might,Without blinking an eye from night to day.In, out, round and about his fins and tail.His mouth to the brim first left and then right,Goes wriggling and jiggling beneath my pli.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/647336/ Who to hear? Who toask why? When her head tilted between earth and sky.  The wilted wretch breathlessly rolled her die towards the gleam of the setting sun.  And there was no-onebut she who could not sigh, nor a vaporous tear to spring from her .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/646925/ Be still now, and tellme can you hear it? There, inthe silence. The soundof their feet, like ghosts tapping,their hands dancing andclapping. We thought this dance floorabandoned. Such foolswere we, since five hundred yearsfrom now, my dear, andtheir feet will be tapping still. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/644496/ If all my life I have been destined to walk this path, then I am destined to become it. From the early morning spring, to the late of winters night, with my too tiresome feetthere is a stillness in the changing of seasons. There is a constant. Something I can'.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/644494/ Here he comes. White stallion.  Death of autumn flooding through winters gate. Ghostly, falling from stars, cloven hoovesdeep into the fields. Remember me? I, who beside you, winter skinand white brea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/641548/ To bea rhyme for the time as it's meant.  Just like the blink of an eye, or the bits betweenwhere the light that shone, wasonce a gleam.  Yes, perhapslong forgotten, but not gone, just moved on to yetanother one. Another rhyme. To be as a drop of wat.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/637219/ How far we've come, since those early days. When we sat beneath the stars, and the breeze fell on my shoulder like moonbeams in the dark. But this was our first year together, and the stars, really thecandles you'd lit so as I could read you snippets from my book, and the br.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/636654/ I walked the path under an asphalt sky. My head lifted to the stars. The intangible light creosoted my way -again..Which was not quite right. Black night dawns upon aweary evening, as a winter, white upon the autumn season. Endings and .beginnings are all the same. I'd set my wat.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/636652/ I see the laughterflit across grass. Over,up, about, as if autumn leaves had flown their branch.Silently weaving her route.A million hearts set upon the sky, wingsof delight. I hope she seesthis ode to a butterfly,as up, down, she sways in flight.On this summer day we write,in the shade, s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/635358/ Afloat the grey edges ofan elongated mystery.Lingering to one side, whitefaced, folded and crouched.  Beneath the fine extrusion, a dark sidespeaks.  Return to sender between stippled instructions.  And ifI&nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/635355/ Always I've been sat here. Still in the grass, to breathe the scent of flowers, and see the dew set before sunrise, still, as the night, hungry came to embrace them all.  Always I've been&nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/629948/ A ship sails on the horizon. Empty vessel.First a dot, and then a blot, until it emerged like coal in the amber sky. Sails floating against the wind. Black and gold bound for home, limitless and drifting. But would either go? Each could only wish they knew. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/629945/ Look!  A shadow that moves in light. Perhaps it's a creature of the night? I saw it, just now! I did for it was there! It came in through the window, then ran beneath the stair. And then I laughed at how silly I'd been, for I knew there was no dark, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/629943/ A dream hangs.  Reckless,nocturnal. Sunken whispersfrom within the midst of anempty vessel. Hefollows them there, stepping throughthe canvas, and measuringthe cold with his fingers,until barely atrace remains.  But a shadow,obsidian metaphors.An image, abbreviated,risen from the depths,int.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/christinemulvey/625882/