The blotchy neck belongs to Father O’xxxxx.  I slip the amice over his snow raked pate.  Through the vestry windows ...

In the milk-eye of a dying ewe, unfathomable sky. Crouched in mudshit straw you cradle her neck while the young...

I remember staring at a painting above   My crib: two swans on green water.  But, to me  Shifting forms only. ...

My grandmother learnt the best way to muzzle tragedy was to speak only in her mother tongue.   Rěn nài...

She knows how to draw blood,  though that is not her vocation.  In ju-jitsu one can break a brick  with...

  google says that if you have brown skin and you want to turn it white then you can buy...

On my way back from Cornwall at the beginning of the month, I stopped off in Bath to visit that...

As this is the month of love, I have been inspired to write a sweet love letter to my favourite...

At the very end of last month, I attended a workshop on poem titles run by Sue Burge. This gave...

The love of An enjoyable book can have a lasting effect on our lives. These may stem from childhood memories...

It is two weeks since I got back from my family visit to Sudan. I find that I have written...

I am thrilled to bits to be the next poet-in-residence at Cyprus Well, walking in the footsteps of one of...