Huw Riddington

Bio

I am a writer.

From the Window

There is spit and spite and fight, In the day for me, But tears conduct the music of the spruce tree.   There is cuss and fuss and enough of us, When you are close to me, Till distances gaze of the sewing fingers of the spruce tree.   There is nothing, not a sound but me alone, When I need that way, And it’s fake, the warm frost, of my spruce tree.   There is you who I’ve lost, When you talk that way, Slow, moves the wind of our spruce tree.   There is you, loving you who …Read more

A Season

Summer is falling into Winter, As man gives the wood another splinter, I work the land with my bonfire done, Managing the world so its health is won.   The trees have been shook down to their roots, The wind was dancing in walking boots, The leaves are the warmest of nature’s colours, Falling forever, for there are still others.   The soil bids farewell to summer’s fat, Mushrooms lifting the soil’s hat, Animals sensing the oncoming rhyme, Rushing to find winter homes in time,   Now the sky is smothering the ground in mist, Warm, grey and dank everywhere …Read more

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