I am a Nyctophile.
I love the night, the darkness:
it gives me pleasure,
it gives me comfort,
it gives me peace.

In the night hours
I can hear the soft rustling of the trees,
the trilling of insects,
the gentle pad of the cat,
the bark of the fox,
the scurrying of the hedgehog
as they go about their night-time adventures.

In the night hours
I can see the the stars
glimmering above
and when the moon is risen,
I can bask in her soft, silver glow.

In the night hours
I can smell the cool air
and taste the new-formed dew.

In the night hours
all that is familiar
takes on a new persona
in the shadows.

And what secrets
hide in those shadows?

They do not bring me fear
but curiosity …

In the quiet of the night,
my thoughts are mine,
uninterrupted and unencumbered
by the noises of the day;
the clamour of voices,
the roar of the traffic,
the cacophony of daily life.

I love the night, the darkness,
it gives me pleasure,
it gives me comfort,
it gives me peace.

© 2025

I am a collector.

I collect:
wise words
and affirmations,
witty words
and quotes by the famous
and the infamous.

I collect:
lost words,
discarded thoughts,
lost souls,
wayward spirits,
the forgotten.

I collect:
dreams
and nightmares,
wants
and regrets.

I collect:
memories
both good and bad,
slights and barbs.

I collect:
feelings
and can sense
a person’s mood,
their disapproval,
their anger,
their compassion,
their burdens,
their love.

I collect:
things …
tangible things,
things I need,
things I desire,
things I regret.

I am a collector of all things.

Daffodils:


Little yellow trumpets that herald the coming Spring.
They shyly rise above the earth until, fully grown,
Then loudly proclaim
That Winter has turned on its heels
To give way to longer, warmer days.

And when their fanfare fades away,
the sweet peal of the bluebells can be heard,
Drifting across the early dawn.

And snowdrops smile,
Knowing that Summer will soon be here.

It’s not the dank, damp, grey days.
It’s not the drizzle that seeps through the seams of my coat.
It’s not the dark mornings.
It’s not the dark evenings.

It’s the crisp air of an early morning frost.
It’s the spiders’ webs glistening with frozen dew.
It’s the shades and hues as the leaves turn golden.
It’s the peace and quiet as nature settles down for her long sleep.

“Sticks and stones …” the familiar saying goes
but words hurled in anger
are as sharp as a needle or sword:
the pen is mightier
and can cut to the core.

So, choose the words you write with care
as the wounds from your words
can fester and scar.

Instead,
use your words to praise,
to console,
to declare your love,
for those words
are the most powerful
and feed the soul.