My Heart is a Wild Place


My heart

is a wild place


I dare not tread

with loud feet

and ungloved hands

My heart 

Is a wild place


I move in subtle rhythm

With soft-coloured eyes

behind lashes

My heart 

is a wild place


Words are seldom

with a mute tongue

Surrounded by lips like cherries

My heart 

is a wild place


Touch is sharp

with finger tips

and nails


My heart 

Is a wild place



and rose bush

twill in a wind

of frosty dew

My heart 

is a wild place


Once untameable


sleeps peaceful




tender tones

to tell a thousand words.


J.Calvert 2017


A Braid Of Blue Horizon

Fragrant scents linger still
on light wind;
across the mill
Speaking to the trees
whispers softly spoke,
Between visions of gold;
lies Calla-Lilies
Trumpet shaped
paper-like bulbs
Painted in oil strokes,
Across Western Isles,
a braid of blue horizon
A hazy day unfolds
The hours between us;
filled with wordless minutes –
seconds slip
through our fingers
No matter how we cling
The silent sea
and the land moans sweetly
Words fail our sensibilities,
Disentangled by the strings that cast
and bind our hearts
Our senses curve above the sun,
The clouds a husky front –
The sound of silence
Speaks to us,
In the garden of our dreams.

@ J.CALVERT 2017

Photography courtesy of Pinterest

Poetry by Kim M. Russell

Poetry by K M. Russel


When he reached out to take her hand,
She knew it was the start
Of his journey to her heart:
Their worlds collided,
Hands touched,
Sculpting her skin
With fingertips
And his lips
Reading each scar,
Each line on her palm;
Smoothing cracks
And callouses,
Healing the broken
Heart in her open


I long for the sunshine of another climate
But cannot stand the agonising wait,
The jostle of station and airport queues,
And tourists who obstruct the views.
I hide inside
From rainy grey,
Waiting for the flash
Of random rays,
Any hint of sunny days.
At last,
I smell the gentle singe
Of sun upon my winter skin
And, without hesitation,
Haul a chair into the garden,
A book tucked underneath my arm
In my hand,
A glass of wine,
Cerise and sweet,
Licence to bask in summertime.

Rain in Vallagrina Valley

Sticky with kisses of raindrops,
The town overflows with red rooftops,
Splintering like slabs of toffee
On the slopes of Vallagrina Valley.
Ghostly bells in each church tower,
Mumble and mutter on the hour,
Warning every square and alley:
A storm is brewing in the valley.
Mountains choke with fermenting cloud
And thunder threnody echoes loud.
Umbrellas mushroom in the streets,
For daily errands cannot wait.
Puddles and overflowing gullies
Are typical in Vallagrina Valley.



My name is Kim M. Russell, my website is Writing in North Norfolk and I live in Norfolk, England, not far from the North Sea coast: the perfect place for inspiration. I have been writing poetry since I was a teenager, a very long time now. When I lived in Germany, I wrote in German and English, and had several poems published. Now I write only in English, with a few translations now and again.
Until a few years ago, I was teaching at a high school and didn’t have much time for writing, but since I’ve retired, it seems like I can’t stop! I’m in the process of revising a novel for children, set in Second World War Two London; I’m half-way through a young adult novel set on the North Norfolk coast; and I’ve started developing another young adult novel set in Norwich.


‘My first love will always be poetry.’

Evening Primrose


Portrait of sadness by Agnieszka Lorek

Before the light of day
slips behind the moon
the maple tree glows red,
In tendrils of spidery webs
my fingers caress the earth,
Overcome by
the delicate aroma of evening primrose,
blossoms exposed on dusk.
The warmth of the sun fading –
the cool air weighs
heavily around my shoulders,
the lace shawl a slip across my vulnerability.
The beetles scuttle across the grass below,
Searching for a place to call their own.
I, a shapeless shadow,
disguised by the comfort of night
white stargazer lilies
upon the burial site,
a stagnant boulder
my eyes aching in
fits of weeping,
red rimmed and creasing,
hysteria took my heed.
Taken to the ground
my tears and
all my days gone,
an ancient story
buried below,
Goodbye my love.
Unfold my limbs across
our final resting place
Under the sun and
Clouded night.

I’ll lie with you all my days.


Melted Tallow

The edges of the paper


loosely twisted cord

smouldering in the dark

melted tallow

and vanilla plum

the heat overcomes

the smoked-filled room

washes down her throat

shadowing windpipes

suffocating her lungs

sickly-sweet intoxication

the script melts

ink and promises  

dissolve into night

black smoke left hovering


the words of her lover


the oil lamp burns on.