Was that really me, signed his life away fresh-faced, innocent marched North then sailed East to unknown seas? Fuelled by anticipation, anchored by camaraderie, that
A milk jug, handle turned in, was all it took for father to lather, a barrage of curses decrying our lack of worth, foaming from
That tone – teeth clenched lips taut the coldness in your gaze I swallow anxiously shifting foot to foot await raise of hand fist clenched
Like Mary Quant sister had the look – groomed in etiquette, poise and fine dining while my boyish antics merited mixology prep one destined for
September is chilly mornings and classroom routines, cardigans dragged home, and the onset of colds. Grandma packs her bag with activities to distract, a soup
Pot-bellied, am I: misshapen by age and gravity – more rot than plump ripe pear – still, a vessel for love – grandmotherly vase.