Three hundred children, brim full of poetry’ are shuffled from the library: a whispered threat to their security (just enough to suggest...

Just left of darkness, our soon sleeping shapes are licked by night’s blank face.

Suddenly, seemingly wide awake, he shot upright, indignant and demanding to know where I had hidden them. “I know you know where they...

I’m waking up early but want to keep sleeping, to stop the sun rising, to wave away leaving: to not say goodbye and feel my heart...

Through the fog, she reached forward, unembroidered his brocade- gold against black- and picked him apart. With fingers deft, she drew...

They come armed with bulbs: it’s not too late they say though the wind blows cold across the Shannon and the ground is frostbitten. I...

Peć to rhyme with deck of cards, stacked against a hand shaking, stacked against a trembling, laid beside the mountain stone: ruled like...

In the 'synthetic cream' bakery, a squat man chats to his thin-limbed son. The boy has an empty orange bag slung across his chest. "How...

The black feathers scribble invisible ink letters to long lost lovers across the furthest arcing reaches of the textured off-white sky....

I park the car off Route de Gravelines – six minutes on Sat Nav from the Port – and head, on foot, along Chemin des Dunes: half road,...

Things to be kept: My head My hands My books My pens My own bed Things to be whole: Hearts This to be sliced: Bread These to be held: A...

Do bones feel a tickle as a finger traces letters – nestled, mossy letters – neatly indented in the cold grave stone? Is there a shiver...

More like a wife, curved thigh to thigh and sculpted back to belly: held tight by tattoed arms and warmed.

Don’t keep your curtains closed against the day or leave your glasses waiting, arms open, ready to frame your face. Don’t leave your...

I fall from a thousand metres up into crushed white sheets to sleep – wrecked with love. Photo by Lum3n from Pexels

Esmé comes down the stairs with angry tears streaking unwanted understanding down her Year 5 face. This is death like she’s never known...

I’m hiding in the looped double eff of the title, sniggering, wondering whether it alludes to something (obviously nothing lofty like...

It’s raining. It seems mud and rain is de rigeur in this world. She keeps this phrase to herself. Underdressed, she shifts, stamps feet,...

What was the draw that brought us here, us four? Well, for one, we were rural-remote and chasm bored. Our Xanadu – a slope of woodland...

When you say ‘staycation’ it makes me want to shove you into a suitcase with no wheels and heft you into the boot at 6am so we can drive...