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.
You said it was parasitic, feeding off trees, mimicking snow, rolled by the elves into crystal balls, masking the cold resistance of berry fists.
Angel cold, the wet-nosed rain became a crochet shower - star-shaped, bon-bon powdery, tentative, childlike, shy and soft.
The wind soothsays in the key of G, sighing, I match my tone to his. In our duet I hold out strong, harmonise . . .