Stones and Flowers by Vic Briggs

“I suppose sooner or later in the life of everyone comes a moment of trial. We all of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us, and we must give battle in the end.”
― Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

I look up from my tomb of stone and for a time wait in silence for the end to reach me. There are no last words of wisdom, no legacy of letters to offer in exchange for one day more.

As the shadow crumbles into darkness I glimpse an edge of white curved into my palm.

I blink. I blink again. It stays with me.

A flower… My thumb traces its crown as if to reassure itself that it is truly there. So small that it could be a trick of light.

Light? Realisation breaks through.

Not all is lost.

By the Dots



               I think… I love you too.

              Such simple words, but listen

              What do they tell you now

              Under the glaring sun?

              Ambiguous at best,

              At worst more than reluctant

              To turn the passion’s thrust

              Into a lover’s promise.

              And what is love?

              A doll that toys with your emotions,

              Dressed up in idle flutter,

              Misnomers… earthly pleas.

              A youthful dream perhaps

              Made true by foolish summers

              Spent nosing through the dust

              Of erstwhile myths.  

              Await your Romeo’s boots

              To clamber through the window,

              Or Cleopatra’s knife to carve desires new.

              Fools! Their blood crushed worlds

              And you want to drink oceans

              When their depths in anguish

              Will drown in vows untrue

              The last beat of your heart.

              Unshackled, stand alone

              And learn the price of daring

              To hope against all proof.



Does silence speak?

Does silence speak?

Is speech oft silent?

Is either weak?

Does weakness turn repentant,

Or turn violent?

What choice is there?

Which is the greater freedom:

Desire and not care,

Live life a sinful serpent –

Or squash it into boredom?

Forget forbidden fancies.

Delay dangerous dances.

Curtail cruel cravings.

Restrict rapacious ravings.

Hope offers one no pleasure.

Silence and speech, both hurt

In equal measure.