1st July 2026

 

shower time

but there's something missing

no water

© Rachel Green July 2026

I was sixteen when I attended my first concert;

Thin Lizzy at Stafford Park

paid for by the bloke

who took Sue and I dog training.

He hadn't expected me

and thought he was on a date

but Mum had just died

and Sue wanted to lift my spirits.

To be fair, he thought it was a date

and she wanted me to dissuade him

from any 'funny business'

I wish I could remember his name

but he had a mini with an 8-track;

played the Beatles over and over

and I, too, wanted to be a paperback writer.

© Rachel Green July 2026

30th June 2026

 

Morrison's shop

All the fridges have broken down

a Cook with no ham

© Rachel Green June 2026

Routines

we took turns on Sundays;

one of us would make breakfast

while the other slept in until ten

or else wake to the bells of the church

at the edge of the common.

We'd listen to The Archers

omnibus edition on Radio Four

which he'd followed for twenty years

and I barely tolerated.

Shouting began on the closing music

then afterwards

a visit to the parent's

or maybe A&E.

© Rachel Green June 2026

29th June 2026

 

evening mowing

the dog appreciates it

clean toilet

© Rachel Green June 2026

Have You Tried Not Assuming?

I am not single

no matter what you think

and what you assume from my profile.

I'm not straight

nor sis

nor young

nor available

nor interested.

men assume interest

that a comment I make on a public forum

must be personal,

intimate,

inviting.

It is not.

© Rachel Green June 2026

28th June 2026

 

waste ground

teeming with butterflies

buddleias

© Rachel Green June 2026

Peas

my mother sits on the front step

shelling peas in the sunshine,

the green-painted, half-paned door

open to create a draught.

Two dogs at her feet;

and old whippet and a lab cross;

middle aged and fat,

spreading onto an old rug

like honey melting under heat.

She smiles at the camera;

her skirt full of fresh-picked pods,

the colander between her knees,

and a washing up bowl at her side,

where she throws empty pods for compost.

I steal a fresh pod from her

it is full of pea-moth maggots.

© Rachel Green June 2026

27th June 2026

 

red heat warning

peeling off sweaty knickers

hot girl

© Rachel Green June 2026

Confession

sixteen

barely an adult; barely a child

half-orphaned already

my widower father won't talk to me

I look too much like my mother.

He works early shift, overtime

comes home at two in the morning

and shouts to turn my light out

electricity doesn't grow on trees.

This is 1978, and solar technology

is still only in science fiction.

I've been transcribing Crowley;

carving a pentagram into the floorboards

while candles drip wax onto a sheep skull

found in the North Wales countryside.

I know there is no god

for what god would take a mother?

but there is certainly a devil;

I'd seen too much evidence;

impossible figures in liminal spaces,

the voice that whispers in the quiet.

© Rachel Green June 2026

26th June 2026

 

thunderstorm

a mere wetting of the ground

heat wave return

© Rachel Green June 2026

Corporate America

seven trumpets

the prophecy said,

but still Abaddon rises

before a single one is blown.

Where are the angels?

Where is the Redeemer?

Vengeful souls are handed fresh white robes

but there is no resurrection.

The angels are dead, or gone away

and only the devils are left.

© Rachel Green June 2026

25th June 2026

 

heat wave

the dog needs to leave

cooler outside

© Rachel Green June 2026

"I'm dead," said the ghost,

but he hadn't a tongue

or lips to shape words 

or his teeth or a lung

so all he could do

was to move through the air

and make people feel cold

if they're standing there.

Did I mention at all

he's invisible, too,

so he cannot be seen

when he looks out of you.

© Rachel Green June 2026