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,...

    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...