We set about him with rifle butts and spades,
waiting our turn alongside our enemies,
the same sunburnt flesh, the same blistered
feet. Met where our camps, the same

    She remembers the house of her husband He’s not, as they said he is: loathsome, most monstrous. He has a strange and sinister beauty. His eyes are obsidian, shot through with gold, a ruby burning in each. A noble brow, and magnificent cheekbones. You can...

I am most visceral
when being disarmed
by a song, a lyric
written and sung…
in the broad New Yawk vowels

The ferry pushes the sea,
forces a long, white reply
that speaks of where we’ve been

In a corner chapel of the abbey
I lit a small candle, and sent the flame
as a message only half composed

there’s not much you can do
when the planets
are telling you to stop

Can’t hear yourself think only the bass line
of a heart thumping. Your head’s clamped.

It is not like an egg cracking
or an exquisite shiver of shattered glass.

When I lost loved ones last year
I thought my childhood fears would return.