Camping
If I could snuff out the world
I would,
if I could chase away
the what once was,
if I could glance at a mirror
and catch a glimpse
of an unspoilt smile.
Instead I climb dark stairs,
cloak the mirrors,
shut the curtains tight
against the moon's perfect face
and dream of canvas walls,
acres of clean sky,
and wait (once more)
for the candle's spark
and the gas bottle to blow.
Mitten
Making shapes with her hands
that comfort her
when no one else can,
touching frosted milk bottles
that guard the dry stone doorsteps,
touching them for luck,
for the ritual of the bend,
the extending of the arm.
“Mittens cannot be part of this world”
she thinks, as she passes the park,
she sees a glove in the grass,
its fingers black and limp
curling into octopus wetness,
she stoops to touch it,
but just as her fingers reach towards it,
she remembers that gloves are the enemy,
snatches them away,
standing tall,
averting her eyes
she leaves it there
mournful and alone.
• Julia Webb is a mature student in the second year of BA Creative Writing at Norwich School of Art and Design.