Whispers on the Wind

Daily writing prompt

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

View all responses

A thought drifts,
a leaf on the stream of my mind,
twirling, unfixed,
where does it begin? Where does it end?
Or does it simply flow,
a river of light and shadow,
touched by the sun, swallowed by the canyon.

I hear a clock ticking somewhere,
or is it just the tapping of a branch against the window,
the world outside reaching in,
or is it my heart, beating a steady rhythm
against the ribcage of routine?

Coffee steams on the table,
curls up like a cat in the morning light,
its scent a memory,
a morning years ago, or was it just yesterday,
when the rain fell in sheets,
thick as the curtains in an old movie theater,
muffling the world into a hush?

Words hover like hummingbirds,
eager, elusive,
dipping into the bright flowers of ideas,
never quite landing,
never quite still,
each a burst of colour,
vibrant and fleeting,
a heartbeat captured in mid-flight.

Laughter bubbles up,
a wellspring from the depths,
why did it come? From a joke, a memory?
It fades before I grasp it,
but leaves a warmth,
a lingering glow that paints the world gold.

The pages of a book lie open,
each word a stepping stone across a stream,
I wander across them,
lose my way,
find it again in the plot,
a character’s sigh, a twist of fate,
like walking through a forest,
every tree familiar, mysterious.

Ode to a Future Harvest

Daily writing prompt

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

View all responses

I saw myself, in 10 years’ time, on a stretch of land where the old world whispers,
in the tranquility of a European village, where the earth holds deep secrets and the air is thick with the past.
There, amidst the rolling fields kissed by the soft sun,
I build my sanctuary, a farm, where time slows its relentless march and simplicity breathes.

With cats that slink and curl between beams of sunlight,
with dogs that bound, their joy uncontainable, across the expanse of open land,
with the humble company of farm animals, each a character, a companion,
in this workshop of living, I weave my days.

I plant my roots deep in the soil, fertile and rich, a foundation of centuries,
where vegetables and flowers bloom like a painter’s palette splashed across the canvas of green,
each season cycles like verses in a long, lyrical poem penned by the earth itself.
Here, the quiet hum of the village life sings a gentle lullaby.

The barn, a cathedral of rustic, aged wood, stands solemn, sacred,
a monument to the pastoral life long dreamed of in the restless city nights.
Here, peace is not just a concept, but something palpable, as real as the dirt under my fingernails,
as the smell of rain on wind, as the warmth of the sun on my face.

I trade the blaring horns and the clatter of machines for the morning calls of roosters,
the twilight whispers of the wind through the trees,
for the celestial quiet of the countryside and the rhythmic chant of cicadas as dusk falls.
This is where my soul finds its pause, its deep, fulfilling breath.

Freedom here is not solitary, it’s a chorus of life, of interconnection,
a daily dialogue with nature, with the creatures that share my slice of paradise.
In this envisioned future, my spirit dances with the infinite, where every leaf, every cloud, every star is a poem,
where the land itself writes stanzas on the sky.

In this future, I am not just a keeper of land, but a seeker of truths,
taught by the steady growth of oak, the resilience of pine,
the eternal wisdom of the earth beneath, the expansive teachings of the open sky above,
in a village that cradles my existence like a timeless hymn.

This is where I see myself, not just surviving, but thriving,
in a communion with the earth, a pact with the simplicity of life,
where the frenzy of the ‘now’ yields to the profound pulse of the ‘eternal’,
in the heart of a village, my home, a sanctuary not just made, but deeply, truly lived.