.

.

I breathe in the smell Of clean laundry still Being washed. Its scent Reminding me of the Good Old Days, when Grandma would Cook dinner on Saturday afternoon And let us sit on the bench

I've turned this into a poem. Intimate relationships create their own language..and when we break from that intimacy - we are refugees in a sense haunted by the flashes of our other self.

TEXT Message: 19280 Not sure if you have heard, but Nanny passed away yesterday in Coventry and Warwickshire hospital. Please pass the information to the others who are in Canada. Robert.

The World hasn't stopped for you. Time will not wait for me.

I found it on the way home from school. I almost walked past but a fluttering caught my eye and what I had first assumed was a discarded sock at the side of the road was, in fact, a tiny kitten.