by Helen Ivory | Feb 4, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Glove My stubby maroon glove spent a chill night on the velvet ridge of Clent Hills tangled in summer-dried grasses and snapped seed heads, pecked at sniffed at and tumbled among crusty rabbit droppings. Cuff sheltering tucked-in snails and slugs,...
by Helen Ivory | Feb 3, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Bin Day It’s Wednesday and / again / I’m laying pages of newspaper on the kitchen table / tipping up the food waste bin / scattering teabags and potato peelings and orange pith in a pile / and wrapping it up like chips from the chippy / so the...
by Helen Ivory | Feb 2, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Pilates Zoom We cultivate the knack of getting down on the floor and back up three or four times each day. The constellation of cables, chips and thin air through which our leader observes us is mysterious as prayer, more predictable, precise....
by Helen Ivory | Feb 1, 2025 | Featured, Flash Fiction
Chiaroscuro A line of blue hills in the distance is contoured like a monumental sentence… – Ciaran Carson He began his day as he’d always done—by fetching up the milk from his doorstep, putting the kettle on and tumbling Darjeeling leaves...
by Helen Ivory | Jan 21, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Waiting For Mark After you died, someone asked: What was it like in those final sixteen days waiting for your son to die? I was not waiting. Wanting, yes. Hoping, yes. For more days. Finding joy in small things, a game of Camel Cup, your favourite...
