Today’s choice
Previous poems
Lorna Rose Gill
I Don’t Remember Breakfast With You
Maybe I remember getting brunch;
or the time the dog ate my croissant;
or when you fed me strawberries ironically in bed
and we giggled with sugar on our lips.
These breakfasts bubbled like new rivers.
Now, mornings are made of muesli on the sofa,
the dog between us, coffee and juice.
We didn’t mean for routine. We put it together
piece by piece and the sun agreed.
Lorna Rose Gill is a poet and facilitator. She lives on the Wirral with a man and two dogs and is mostly inspired by the liminal space of the intertidal zone. Find her on Instagram @lornarosegill and theorangeverse.substack.com
Sharon Phillips
Wet tarmac blinks red and gold,
names shine outside the Gaumont.
‘Stop dreaming, you’ll get lost.’
Bill Greenwell
Before the first turn of the key, before
adjusting the mirror, before releasing the handbrake even,
Dad said: there are two things you need to know.
Matt Gilbert
Alive, but not exactly,
as it fills the frame, flicker-lit
by lightning. . .
Rebecca Gethin
This morning
the room is bright with snowlight
and everything seems illuminated differently.
Lorraine Carey
Every Sunday he insists on beef
from Boggs’s butchers, a forty minute drive
away.
Gabriel Moreno
It’s hard to say what he did, my father.
His shoulders portaged crates,
he captained boats in the night,
chocolate eggs would appear
which smelt of ChefChaouen.
Henry Wilkinson
I rolled an orange across daybreak;
I waited for the moon to ripen.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, we bring you KB Ballentine, J.S. Watts and Terry Dyson
as wind whispers your name.
Summer’s breaking down and a starker calling comes –
leaves saturated with sunset before surrendering.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, we bring you Helen Laycock, Ruth Aylett and Debbie Strange
we will meet again
on the other side