top of page









that summer



that  summer    you tell me     you want  to grow old


with  Delphine.    i don’t stop the car  or leave you

on the     hard  shoulder   to pick shattered   glass


from melting pitch or your slinged,still-fractured arm.

ijust drive & drive, point  our easy wheels  in &  out

of measured gaps, avoid the rough white lines that vibrate,


shudder, accuse.   that summer,  Nice  is so fucking  hot


we only get it in strips; through locked persiennes,razor-angled,

slit. mosquito-sleep injects its  slow narcotic weight.  at night


the  bourganvillias fist. at    night  I envy you  her  mouth 


Winning poem in  the  2017 Myslexia unpublished poets prize


Ann’s shed


bags of cement, rusty poles, a rook of hoes, spades and shears. ivy

growing through a crack in the door, Grow-Bags, rolled up carpet strips,

a Helping-Hand pick-up stick, plastic sheets and bamboo canes;

used each season that comes around, stuck in a punctured yellow bucket.

a worn-out cushion, tangled wire, a Spear & Jackson tool (I can’t describe)

3 coloured and leaky watering cans. the first summer flies; all novice,

all weak, tough shadows grown long in the day, and here - a coat

I should recognize. sweet peas straggling the roof, defying a rickety trellis, 

the neighbour's cooking drifting in, another roast, another day fro rest, a jar

of shells from an unremembered beach, a barking dog, a cobweb rocking

between window and frame; its threads spanning more pots than her garden would need,

and the gardener herself; bedded down in her purple room with palliative bed,

a catheter, a morphine supply, a disease. the window always ajar (to breathe,

to breathe, to take in the last of all she would leave) listening only to birds

to voices now, and the wind playing each individual leaf. and Ann, 

still asking how everyone is, whilst softly growing her own death.

bottom of page