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A Poem A Day for every day, for every emotion and for everyone
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There is an old house Mummy calls it ‘the past’ There is a plaque above the door in bronze and at last do we step inside Mummy and I. We tread across sallow floorboards, and I bask between old statues of men wondering what kind of a name ‘Slave Trader’ is. Everything here is labelled.…
Guessing Game
Can you guess which books are behind me?
COVID Survivor, Trying to be A Writer Part III
A Night Out in the City I Daddy, it’s cold. Daddy, look, look At the lights. How they shine, Like a family of hyacinths encased In neon wax. Daddy, watch. You’re Not watching. Look. Listen To them. How they sing, Like flocks of sparrows or swifts. Daddy. Where are you? II Daddy, where are you?…
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