About MeMy Movellas - My Mumbles - Favourites
Movellas Ambassador
Nominee for 2012 Movellys 'Most Helpful Movellian'
Silver in Picture Prompt Competition with 'Beautiful Black Rock'
Winner of 'Reviewing 2012' Competition
Poem 'Stars' published with 'Miracle e-zine'
Novel 'Elevea's Child' published on the World Book Day YA App
Hi everyone! I'm Annie;
I've been on Movellas for a year and my best pastime is checking out new movellas and movellians, as I like to make everyone feel welcome. I am open to any genres, but still favour poetry! <3
I live in the U of the K and am currently 15. I love music and anything creative. Honestly, talk to me, ask questions on my blog and I am happy to read whatever you request. Feedback is my strong point, and I always try to give constructive criticism, otherwise it's not worth me reading the movella at all!
Be inspired, be creative, and love what you've got.
Father's Pond:
My father's pond was his pride.
Every Sunday he would scoop out the leaves
and tend to the aquatic Fauna and Flora
and spend hours stooped over the gurgling waters
to observe the squirming invertebrates,
hands plunged into the carefully proportioned flowerbeds
bordering, to remove any weedy invaders,
surrounded by the incandescent army of colour.
My father's pond danced with life
that thrived and died like a continuous domino,
the pond's young cheeks ever rounded
with the innocent smiling.
The shallows glowed with golden sunlight
when she was pleased with the world;
her darkened fingers clasped the water
as she mourned the day and her silence.
My father did not see this:
he was her Sunday visitor,
the Pastor, the snails might say
or the bright, admiring tourist, returned annually.
For what we all saw was a year gone by
when the amber fish that chided there
grew slowly pale, wearied,
one by one were floating to the sky.
When all dead the pond froze for the winter,
and so we thought its life had come: and gone.
That spring, as Papa's pride thawed,
out swum a timid thing into the shallows -
grey, small, unsure of the world.
The next week it was joined by another, and more.
Soon father's pond was a thriving fishery again
and every Sunday he would proudly observe them.
He called them survivors:
for they were valiant little things,
soon gold like their parents and lively too,
the pond their haven, their deity my father.
And so my father's pride ebbed and flowed
like the domino of life in his pond
and the little fish, as they swum in the joyful paradise,
slowly forgot that they knew not their parents.