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      From the Blue Life won’t be contained by how far the horizon, we don’t compose the song of each other but revel in the days of making. Love carries the seeds of its own tragedy and you can’t come through it unscathed, but endure the days of...

      Afoot Only, when your face slams into solid glass, somewhere outside Dorking – a squared-off edge unmentioned in map or guide – do you realise what’s going on, presence noted by a watchful deer, wary at the edge of woods, the skulk of abandoned...

      Valentine’s Day, 2016 The red-eye was delayed three times.  On the third I told them my father had died and I had to get home. I was given yesterday’s paper. My mobile rang: a woman wanted to change her contract. I told her my father had died. She...

      Driven I named him Driven after what he had done. Thinking of all the places we would go together under the canopies of the trees, the watery suns the skin of his knuckles popped out against the steering wheel one hand at two o’clock, the other...

      In the Garden Club Hut with Dad Underarmed up onto the bench beside you pondering your bad back, too much flesh above my knees I absorb the morning like a dry seed. You chat, easy with customers most already friends hand them smiles in paper bags...

      Footnotes to a river Pine trees are confirmation that darkness clings erratically. The river-gums, on the other hand, are pale as thighs. A streambed knuckled with pebbles. In conversation with the river, you will not match its fluency. Bellbird,...

      мы сделаны из кусочков тишины вместе взятых. гроб из плоти - это тело оно содержит нас от рождения до смерти но в небе только одно облако осталось висеть на углу наклонного здания и кто в любой момент мог упасть     we are made of pieces...

    Chilled Yeah, I’m okay; been beatin’ up the soil with a spade and fork deadheading the has-beens who no longer talk I have to say in this bone crushing winter I nearly gave up but I’m alright now. Gonna sort the pond next and yup, many a thing has...

      Letter At last my tongue unfurls its vindications. I’m not a silent object of love—a rouged letter in the ruckles of your bed.  You try and squeeze me into your glass slippers, but I’m soaring towards the ceiling, crystal shards studding my...

      After Dinner We take up our positions either side of the mantelpiece – he’s in his rocking-chair behind The Times, mouth moving, no sound; I’m counting stitches, the pattern, the history; outside, applause: hailstones on flagstones, then silence...

      bats under the bridge a broad vault but too low to skirt its flowing floor by weed-cramped margins awareness of great weight above the suspended stones unhomely cut short shelter damp through-draught echoes a paradise of reverse for night-bats...

      Out of office auto-response desks morph into surplus femurs stalking unlit rooms    chairs are pelvises minus a sense of swing walls creep further apart each day carpet oceans lap workstations nobody needs to raise a voice now on the executive...

      Once upon a time there was a word that was sick of its meaning the way it was said and said like a wet cloth carelessly slapping a table. What a tearjerker of a word it was. It barely knew what it meant anymore like it had collapsed from...

      Thread It was gold thread curled tight around a possessive spindle. It was waiting to unspool itself to bind and shape this to that. It had never been in a labyrinth and was not afraid of the dark.     Colin Pink has published two...

      Smoky   Mother chain-smoked, leaving lipsticked butts in plastic ashtrays, where they sent up wisps for hours. Now, wildfires out west blow their dark clouds of sadness eastward to muddy the skies over Lake Michigan that used to be blue. I...