I have 62 stories published in
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We have spent the afternoon either queuing for tickets or later, inside, curling at the edges fagged and ragged in the humidity as we oozed through continents.
It seems unlikely now, this piece of stone snatched from a beach somewhere on Tenerife. She found it. I wonder if she set out to find an astonishing souvenir,
These unwashed, threadbare shirts flutter to earth and flap in packs like filthy feathered yobs. Or tissue-thin old men shoulders hunched and huffing on the edge of things.
Eighty-eight, bent double In ovens at the retirement home, Scouring for beer money, Telling the old bloke I wasn’t his son And no, I didn’t have his slippers on, Time after time.
The hands, almost monstrous, are chipped and weathered, huge and could encompass a child’s head easily. He grabs the logs he’s cut and stacks them in the shed,