I remember the length of my skirt (ten years ago now) and the way you looked at me with asphalt grey eyes- people always said were blue but in them I saw a gloom, which at first I had hoped to fix, until the cataracts of fog became a darkness I had stepped too far … Continue reading Asphalt grey
a broken wrist / and buttered lips / a pain which rides beneath the smile / and surface / behind mascara eyes / a dull ache you cannot strap / nor stem the blood with a torniquet / it flows / like rivers in Spring / an ocean which stings / soddens your clothes / … Continue reading The anatomy of melancholy
I'd like to hold you, stroke your hair and whisper "I understand you now, I understand that someone hurt you too." In response to day 18: grief is a tangible thing, #rainasmprompts Photograph & poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019 Between the Trees UK Between the Trees US Available internationally
It was here we learnt the true nature of adults; of their inability to let children be. I still remember your face when you realised someone was spying through the hatch - I still remember your face and the way it paled blank and twisted as you were chastised for playing in … Continue reading Dolls in the attic
I watch and wonder how many wishes dandelion fairies hold in their feathered pockets - I watch and wonder as they drift, lift and fall in the air, on the wind, if they ever grow too heavy - I watch and wonder what happens to the wishes, the love stories and winning lottery … Continue reading Dandelion fairies
She breathes in and mellows out, counts to ten before beginning again, touches her toes and bunny wiggles her nose trying to shift the memories which have let themselves in, to test her poise, her balance and power, to laud over words she used to believe for hours. She breathes in and mellows out, … Continue reading Rain, rain, go away
A lazy beginning to the day, a warm breeze Sunday in which we combine our bodies and honey gold souls to the sounds of birds in the trees before a cup of tea, a shower of kisses and a walk into the village - a visit to the cemetery to read the unforgotten names and … Continue reading Honey gold Sundays
You say the word "perfect" as if it is new, just discovered in papyrus scroll having been buried in the lost sands of Alexandria for a millennia. The adjective rolls loose from your tongue, your ever-inviting lips and greets every inch of me - my palms, fingertips, calves, thighs, breasts and the dewy skin beneath … Continue reading “Perfect”
Daley-Ward is a writer I have been longing to read since I began to explore contemporary poetry and fiction. She has often been cited as an inspiration so I jumped at the chance to read and review her newest release. In The Terrible, Daley-Ward recounts her coming-of-age experience; the trials, tribulations and mistakes, using the … Continue reading Review of The Terrible, Yrsa Daley-Ward
These memories taste cold, sickly sweet and thick; opaque like red wine, muted and sharp - daggers in the drink, in smiles, in falsely promised next times - stained purple teeth, the deep rivulets in your lips, a grimace as you sup and sip on this feast of ruined nostalgia - memories laid out to … Continue reading Memories do not keep
