The view from my room: a crumbling wall. Until sun beams though brick shaped gaps, when I glimpse the world beyond; gardens wild with valerian and dogrose, mistle thrush and fox. Shade reveals closer mysteries; old cement tracks filled with velveteen moss, seed heads raised, like tiny triffids, seeking light. The above was written and …
I’m in equal parts shell-shocked and delighted my piece, My Blackthorn is a Tree, won the prose category in the Urban Tree Festival. More info here. As well as the super illustration by Alban Low, which arrived today, I’ve the opportunity to have my own chapbook published. So, I’m currently pulling together themes (one of …
The first time he struck, we made our excuses. Like those anti-Hunt letters in the Western Daily Press, we tried to see it from his point of view. He’s only doing what comes naturally, I said. Boy, eyes red, voice choked with tears and snot, didn’t sound convinced. We’ll have to bury her, he insisted. …
They pierce the near-night silence, even before the Overground rumbles. Robin calls, sharp and insistent. Blackbird, shrill and strident, sends a warning volley. Early sunlight strokes my sleep cold face. Wild garlic and crushed bluebells, the scent of memory, drift through an open window. Like this London morning, welcoming Spring. This was a piece of …