My mother never loved my father,
A man who even at the best of times was a drunk and a gambler.
Whether she loved me was a question I thought of habitually
And to some great extent,
But with little in the way of conclusion.
Read more "The house on the hill – One further poem"
People with lives, lives like shooting stars, gleaming and bright and rare, rare as grass that’s green, water that’s blue.
Read more "This Town Has People In It"
Oxford boy, dear oxford boy,
Read more "Oxford Boy – A Love Poem"
Walked in before my shower
Watched with careful glower
Looking strong and rather dower.
And I didn’t mean to stalk you,
But I know that’s what I did.
Read more "Oxford Girl – A love poem?"
I’ve been through a breakup recently, and it’s tough. I think I’ve finally worked out how I’m going to cope, though, so I have some advice for other people who might be in a similar situation. Here are my top five ways to get over a breakup.
Read more "Top Five Ways to Get Over a Breakup"
It’s not all about the girl, I promise.
Read more "It’s not all about the girl – A Poem. Again."
It’s so much more complex.
Just because I spend my weekends
Reading through our texts.
He came roaring round the corner, first time I saw him, little legs stampeding like a centipede. A great wide grin was plastered all over his face, a look of pure, uninhibited happiness.
Read more "Long lost friends"
Last time I spoke to my mother, a rare occurrence yet rarely a memorable one, it was regarding a certain photo she has of me in her room. “Why mother” I asked, doing my best to sound detached and uncaring, “do you have a photo of me on the verge of tears?”
Read more "Witch Hag Speaks (or A Conversation With My Mother)"