Sunday 31 January 2010
Saturday 30 January 2010
Friday 29 January 2010
Thursday 28 January 2010
Wednesday 27 January 2010
Tuesday 26 January 2010
Monday 25 January 2010
Sunday 24 January 2010
Saturday 23 January 2010
Friday 22 January 2010
Sunday 17 January 2010
Saturday 16 January 2010
Friday 15 January 2010
Thursday 14 January 2010
My desk
Wednesday 13 January 2010
Tuesday 12 January 2010
Monday 11 January 2010
Sunday 10 January 2010
Saturday 9 January 2010
Friday 8 January 2010
Thursday 7 January 2010
Wednesday 6 January 2010
Samantha's Cracked Skin
in the long, cold days before her father installed central heating
(thanks to a grant offered by the local council)
Samantha would spend December to February in her bed
wrapped in blankets with an extra eiderdown and chenille throw
and wearing a woolley hat (knitted by her Aunt Agatha) and socks on her hands,
staring out through windows encrusted with ice on the inside
at a world passing her by with nary a glance behind.
she ventured out once a day for a flask of tea and another of soup
and once a week to visit the library to replenish her dwindling supply
of adventure novels and science fiction and tales of elves and goblins;
and once a month to visit the doctor
who would apply ointment and bandages to her cracked skin
and refuse to talk about the creatures that lived inside her
like fairies in a hollow earth
that only came out when she was alone.
Tuesday 5 January 2010
A Miscalculation of the Moon
she picks slivers of silver from the river at midnight.
the full moon scatters them with such abandon
she cannot imagine they are needed anywhere and besides,
there will be more tomorrow.
As the lunar globe slips behind clouds, a hiss
announces the rain as it hits old leaves and suddenly choppy water.
She holds out her tongue and catches a few drops,
pressing them against the roof of her mouth
as if they were grapes peeled by courtesans. The rain
tastes of sulphur and cardamom pods and in her mind's eye
she sees a street in Birmingham, washing strung across a yard
too small for the three children playing in the dirt and the one girl
rocking in the corner by the fence, her face a mask of perpetual shame
as she nurses a belly heavy with her first child
and though she looks at her sister and two brothers' game
she is beset by silence.
the full moon scatters them with such abandon
she cannot imagine they are needed anywhere and besides,
there will be more tomorrow.
As the lunar globe slips behind clouds, a hiss
announces the rain as it hits old leaves and suddenly choppy water.
She holds out her tongue and catches a few drops,
pressing them against the roof of her mouth
as if they were grapes peeled by courtesans. The rain
tastes of sulphur and cardamom pods and in her mind's eye
she sees a street in Birmingham, washing strung across a yard
too small for the three children playing in the dirt and the one girl
rocking in the corner by the fence, her face a mask of perpetual shame
as she nurses a belly heavy with her first child
and though she looks at her sister and two brothers' game
she is beset by silence.
Monday 4 January 2010
Sunday 3 January 2010
Silence
she thrived on silence
and the rustle of the trees when the wind
brought news of the world outside
her sheltered valley
she asked for rain to swell the river
which turned the wheels of her mill
and scattered seeds of barley and flax
among the fairy bells
she basked in sunlight
that ripened crops and turned her toes brown
and she grew old and wise
but still picked blackberries
that turned her mouth purple
and laughed when she felt like it
and the rustle of the trees when the wind
brought news of the world outside
her sheltered valley
she asked for rain to swell the river
which turned the wheels of her mill
and scattered seeds of barley and flax
among the fairy bells
she basked in sunlight
that ripened crops and turned her toes brown
and she grew old and wise
but still picked blackberries
that turned her mouth purple
and laughed when she felt like it
Saturday 2 January 2010
Hagstone
his hands close around the stone
the ball of his thumb resting
against the hole
then turning, turning
deosil – never widdershins –
rubbing our a wish
from the fabric of the universe
until he feels her close –
her breath on his cheek,
he fingers tracing the line of his jaw
and he opens his eyes,
hoping to see his long-dead love
but she is gone –
gone into the wind and the rain
and the crashing of the surf.
He seeks another stone,
certain the right one
will bring her back.
Friday 1 January 2010
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