At midnight the weather breaks, The sky tears apart at the seams, Ripping beneath a knife-slash of light. (inside, beneath a white sheet for the humidity of the summer night, she wakes) This is the witching hour; This is when cats sniff the air with wide eyes And twine their…
There’s a particular place in the Isle of Man; an endless avenue of fuchsia trees, which in most seasons is like any other country lane, but in summer becomes a tunnel of purple and pink flowers. The scent of them saturates the air. At the end of this lane is…
the sea flicks idle hands up to the rocks the empty sea the tomb of the sea; clear to the shallows some weed, some fish some boats. a salt spray touches skin, touches lips its taste like fish. the wet rock, the dry the crabs in pools the islands mark…
