Poet Introduction I compare poetry to painting, believing that I lack any drawing/painting skills but believing my imagination and training in writing has enabled me to transfer my love of visual art to the written word
The memories started to trickle back. She tasted the Cornish sea air, fresh and salty, and saw the white cottage on the narrow, twisting hill where they'd lived when she was four. †Metal railings fishing boats. †In the quay below, seagulls were bleating. †
Next, she saw an untidy garden in Devon. †Branches swayed in the wind and autumn leaves covered the ground. †Taking her by the hand, Mother led her through clumps of damp earth and sat her by the pond to tell her they were moving again. †To Dorset, this time.
'But it will be different, I promise you,' Mother said....
She hadn't been back to Dorset since leaving there, but the images remained fresh in her mind. Once again, she tasted the salt of the sea air as she and Father stood arm in arm, watching the waves splash against the shore. †Ahead of them, a coat of red tinged the horizon, promising a warm start in the morning. †Another day was drawing to a close. †What would the next day bring? †
Father was quiet, sighing. †He sighed often these days; so often, she wondered if he regretted joining the group. †
He stirred. 'Your friend's here.' † A red setter dashed towards...
Nights are bad, some worse than others. Tonight, she can't sleep. She longs for the summer, for the stillness of remote countryside, for the court case to end and the media interest to cease. Tomorrow, she will appear as a witness for the Prosecution. †
The wind enters the bedroom through a crack in the windowsill, wintry like ice, freezing her hands and toes. Outside, a sprinkling of rain has turned to snow, grey and cheerless like the February sky.
Tonight, she keeps seeing it: the dark echoing space of the abandoned warehouse, the outline of soggy boxes visible only...