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"
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)"