Writing

As we lie in the swan neck of spent love, my hands play the ivory rush of your skin, summer smooth, petal keys sound out the first chord.

There are ghosts in this quiet house.I pause under John Wayne’s arm . . .

I'm looking forward to bringing Creative Writing to Garter Lane Arts Centre, with my workshop: 'Start Write', taking place on November 23rd.

There is no figure of night pieced together from patches of dark room, scrambled light of a blink.

As a teenager who dabbled in writing when no one was looking, I had a copy of The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook...

A cat is a witch's companion of choice.  A cat is also a household pet.  Both identities sit at ease within the animal's elegant...

The road narrows and the fog hangs in, like dragon breath. We're on a nameless diversion – no signposts, not even sun to mark the horizon. Houses float out, make themselves known against white. If people live here, it can't be so desolate. It's just the weather.But the road shudders its way into the car, into our bodies, until we exclaim at its roughness. Our eyes find the dirt, not even a hint of a white line. We could not live here.

The poem, 'Your Way' was written from observations of my children at the toddling stage.  This time of new steps, new sensations...

This moss is her island, its dewy green . . .