Glorious The problem with hotels, she’s found is that you cannot escape the mirrors the buffed marble polish of it all. She can swerve in oversized robes bath towels, sheets.  Do the dance of the seven veils, but still is destined to catch the...

      Unscripted Surfaces The window frames a mirror-lake In the room, a desk, oak that still Calls to its sisters, it suffers the fate Of use and wear, the many hands That have laid on it, the careless cups, The lamps and trinkets and it is full Of...

      When You Become a Man's Muse don’t make the mistake of marrying him. You’ll end up in the kitchen facing the wall until he's ready, then dragged on all fours onto the canvas, dressing gown undone, pet dog following. stories shift in contours of...

      Cold is easy you know where you are with it. No lukewarm promises of what will never come. No ghost-friend who ignores you then tells you through someone else that it was your fault all along. This is no hair toss, shoulder-shrug. No brag in the...

      My kitten takes me everywhere I need to go When I am sunk her ears remind me of lightness and rightness and treats, they are paper cones for sweets, chips or popcorn, except these are upside down and miniaturised and made of ultra-thin flickable...

      Trips Are Verbs The ferry chuffed with a lyrical rhythm but I found myself blowing chunks off the starboard into churning green and gray. The islands looked like donkeys in the distance and then like elephants as we drew closer. My mouth tasted of...

    What if? I once read a poem about how a mother can repair a book when it has fallen apart. And I thought what if it was the mother pulling it apart and throwing the pieces into the air for them to fall like confetti? And what if when life puts them...

      the explorer i’d always thought my mother was a hearth rug an astrologer’s words blew me off course even in your pram she poured voyage into you there were the solo cruises of course dad died and she took to the qe2 even dallied with a dance host...

      Search Party Damp October grass left watercolour Brush strokes on my grey Golas As the path retreated behind us like a shrinking quayside. We scouted the undergrowth like a crime-scene Armed with pictures from a stranger’s Instagram, Placing...