A beautiful thing about a woman’s body

Is that her children are born with her

A beautiful thing about a mother’s mother

Is that she gives birth to her grandchildren too

Is that why you loved me doubly?

Extra gentleness, extra generosity

Extra patience in frustration

Extra butter on the plate

Extra cream on the crumble

You have known me for so long

You waited for me and asked for me

And ...

My very dearest Tilly,

You know I would never normally write so frequently, and surely only if something noteworthy has cropped up but let me tell you it has. I will respond to your letter another day, terrible news about your mother. My sympathies.

Anyway, as you well know we always summer on the Riveria, Bertie and mummy and me. England is just too terribly dreary and one can never rely on go...

The pine smells different down here. The needles are formless, they’ve become dust and earth and feed their sisters anew, breathing life into roots as they push down and out and deeper into the heart of the world. How does the pine smell different? It has a touch of the old world, a touch of rot. Closer to the scent of blood; less fresh, more vital.

I come here for the roots, the dark; the moori...

A jug is a thing - made, not born

It is held and holds

Ancient on the inside

Turned earth,

Clay made, hand crafted

Deft thumbs and their ghosts

Marked by nails

Pushed and pulled

A jug has a belly

A jug has a lip, an arm, a neck

It is to be filled and full

It is emptied, happily, in company

It remains empty alone

Urns aside, a jug lives

Holds water, holds wine

Pours life over and over

Into a mo...

A sea of infant hands grasp up

their eyes drawn out to an abyss

a dark void,

out of reach, the absent hand,

the masked visage, unseen, unseeable

our whispers, unheard, unhearable

God is dead, God is dead....