This moss is her island, its dewy green lends spring to her take off.She's running on shadows.
At a time when food meant skin with folds, I hungered for all things sweet: iced buns, custard, marzipan fruit . . .
We're sacrificing a Russian Doll, my husband saysand I see her waist, the curve defining head and body - a body of coal.
As a teenager who dabbled in writing when no one was looking, I had a copy of The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook...
I remember the black rabbit sat on a throne of hill, the gold-specked, greenslide down to the road, where we stopped cars to wait for his shadow.
'Blossom' is a poem for spring and its flyaway beauty. I was inspired to write it after reading a number of...
Candyfloss was the obvious choice, but I was no obvious child. I was as mild as the mown down grass in the school grounds where my legs tanned.
This shell could never have lived on a beach, its skin like the inside of coconut, curls, only mimics the movement of rock-pool water.
Take a leaf, walk its lifelines with your fingers. Make its shape with your hands, its perfect oval an alternate world.