An oak tree, perhaps, my
roots wiggling down into moist soil,
stretching into the earth’s shell for
the life hidden there. The mycelium
swaddling me with nutrients, while
my strong brown arms reach up to
heaven. I will provide shelter for
a million tiny insects. Ants will
form conquering armies around
my trunk. Caterpillars will
make tidy lines around my branches
waiting for their time to fly. I will
be mother to all of this life and I
will know that I am enough. The
sun will shine on me and I will
drink the rain. I will outlive kings
and never question my place in
all of this.

Well, you’ve been a riot, April.  Words have

been flying about all over the place and

settling in unexpected positions: under the

sink, in the sock drawer.  I found some

underneath the toothpaste, mixed together,

no sense at all to be made of them. 

They follow me everywhere I go. 

There’s a trail of poetic fragments stamped

into thick mud on the path where I walk

the dog – furled curled up like a hibernating

mouse, psithurism blowing about like a

dried leaf.  Literary madness.   There’s nothing

to be done but enjoy it.  To gather up those

words as I go, forming a Marley’s chain

of writing behind me, tangled, woven, untidy.

To place them in lines and boxes, feed them

and listen to them sing.

An ekphrastic prose poem about the song Decks Dark by Radiohead (From A Moon Shaped Pool).

A single long note, then a gentle rhythm. It feels like a relaxed heartbeat.  We’re going for a walk

in the dark, on a warm night.  Strange words follow us – we are ragdolls, we are cloth people –

and a piano track creates a path.  Notes tumble around us like rain.  We are drifting into

our darkest hour.  A mournful synth joins, the sound of a thought emerging.  Where are we going?

There are monsters in this dark. 

A sudden interruption of defensive words – we’re inside an argument.  It was just a laugh, just

a laugh.  The stream of words trails away and we’re shocked back into normality.  The piano

resumes, a delicate sound, reassuring us that the monsters are all in our head. 

But they’re not, are they?  Bass notes of the piano now, a warning.  The words are indistinct

as if we’re falling asleep.  Sweet darling, sweet darling. Repeated until darkness.

It’s so cold my skin hurts.  We park the car

behind a camper van and follow another group,

walking slowly so as not to trip over long grass. 

I trip anyway.  The stones are in front of us

but it’s so dark I can barely see them. 

There are other people around but the groups

don’t mix –  satellites in their own orbit.

Above us the Milky Way stretches on and on.

So many stars, it’s overwhelming for a

city girl – its vastness and my consequent

triviality – and it’s truly beautiful.  We

can’t speak.  We stand and we look at

the sky with its delicate pointillism,

other worlds, other suns, a dark forest.

Time stops. 

The aurora doesn’t appear that

night.  We don’t mind.

This type of poem (in which the first word is repeated on each line) is called an anaphora.

Because of hawthorn, with its coiled suggestion of pink.

Because light streaks the clouded sky at the end of a day.

Because of the jolt of primrose yellow when a Brimstone passes.

Because the dog curls into a question mark on the unmade bed.

Because of the shock of anarchic purple heather on the side of a hill.

Because of your smile, and the softness of your eyes.

Because of candy striped cranes against a slowly setting sun.

Because of freshly made bread, and the joy of sharing it.

Because of a sudden screech of blue when a kingfisher flies by.

Because of the unexpected thrill of beauty upon hearing music.

Because we are here, now, and because this life is astonishing.

I was a grey seal, my lush fur

crusted with salt and pearls –

until that day when I lay too long upon

the shore. He stole my hide,

placed it in a herring net and took it.

I raged at the foaming sea for

a long hour, spitting at sailors

and empty-eyed gulls.

My sisters left without me to

dance on other rocks while

I remained, marooned on these legs.

A woman.  Such is my curse.

I learned your ways, slowly, achingly. 

I look human, but don’t mistake me:

I’m the dark part of the sea, the

swell that pulls you under.  My

limbs long for their own undoing.

One day the water will come for me,

call to me with violent urgency.

You’ll awaken to find empty

clothes and saltwater by the bed –

the remains of half a wife.

Note: A monostitch is a one line poem in which the title can offer a clue to the poem’s context.

He shimmers by dressed in yellow, completely unaware that he’s late to the party.

Let’s leave aside your usefulness, for now.

None of us wants to be merely functional,

although you are handy to have around.

We’ll instead consider your form – your sleek

ergonomic levers like a pair of well-toned thighs,

encouraging lateral movement.  There’s

something a little uncanny about you –

pun unintended – you’re a tiny mechanical man

with a wide O of a mouth, as if you are forever

surprised at the things you open, your handle

spinning excitedly like a clown’s bow-tie.

From the back your metal secrets become visible,

your twin hearts spinning in tandem as you fulfil

your life’s purpose.  You are as beautiful as you

are ingenious, and you allow me to open the beans.

Too much was made of the danger of quicksand.
I was terrified, that summer in Rhyl, when my brothers
ran onto the beach where the signs were – I saw them
pulled under, drowned, while I watched. Helpless.
I cried. They didn’t encounter any quicksand, but
I was still afraid. Of building sites too – as if I’d ever
play on one. I was the kid who’d be taken out
of the hall when those films were shown. The kid
who had nightmares. The real dangers were
different, but I wasn’t to know. A hand held out
as if in friendship. Cruelty disguised as love. The
loss of love which is supposed to last forever.