He makes of her his kingdom, knows nothing else but her milk flowing for him: the flick of her tongue interrupting sleep. It's only when...

Take a slice of cereal box and rust brown paint, sloshed on ridged white. Take clay and slip and a sharpish knife. Blend the Medway sound...

Three hundred children, brim full of poetry’ are shuffled from the library: a whispered threat to their security (just enough to suggest...

Poem by Sarah Hehir

The grandchildren wait – old enough to accept that a last breath is death and yet…and yet. The sun is hot. Not just hot, it’s Greek-beach...

A rented room: dark enough for shadows to stand against the warmth of orange light. Us two: up so early that night is like a hot breath...