by Helen Ivory | Aug 22, 2015 | Prose & Poetry
Minster Towers I sit where I always sit in the pink chair with wings. There are no magazine or papers here. My mother’s eyes close, her pinnie dappled with porridge Her hands warming mine. Blue hands. Blue from my walk Across Saturday...
by Helen Ivory | Aug 21, 2015 | Prose & Poetry
Wayland the Smith He moved into cars. It was inevitable with no more ploughs to mend or horses left with a silver penny for a special overnight job. There was still a bit of welding you know, axles and stuff though he had oxy to do...
by Helen Ivory | Aug 20, 2015 | 2015 poetry picks, Prose & Poetry
Conversation The night he was taken my father’s fingers danced like icy spiders: dab-dab-dab at his hospital gown. He talked to his drip obliged to welcome every drop to the coven of wild spirits digging their heels on his skin. The...
by Helen Ivory | Aug 19, 2015 | Prose & Poetry
Suited: His suit needed nothing added to it such was the force with which it argues his case. My Dad’s were always pristine, somewhere between a bank manager and headmaster, to look at him you’d think he had nothing to worry...
by Helen Ivory | Aug 18, 2015 | 2015 poetry picks, Prose & Poetry
For the last time With a mother’s practised care I grasp your greenstick frame and hoist you to your unsure feet though you would be easy to hurt. A time will come that will be the last I perform this simple service and neither...
