3 weeks in

I’ll think of you when the twilight gathers,

I’ll think of you ‘neath morning’s shades.

I’ll think of you when noontime winks,

I’ll think of you when daylight fades.

And though the night be long and slow,

The waves of time will wash my woe

And by the breaking of the dawn,

I’ll know no woe on which to mourn.

I tried to forget you today, as I walked through the flower garden and saw the trees I climbed as a child. I tried to forget you as I watched the dog walkers flinging tennis balls for their bundles of white fluff and mud, so full of joy in the cold morning. I tried to forget you as I watched an old lady feed peanuts to a very tame fox through the wire of the enclosure. I tried to forget you as I watched the stag stroll across the deer park with antlers like grotesque muscular arms posing proudly. I tried to forget you as I sat in the café seat facing the window, as the crisp brown of autumn set into the skeleton trees. I tried to forget you as I kneaded dough, spread it with cinnamon sugar, and drizzled it with icing. I tried to forget you as I read poetry, printed from the internet, highlighting the best parts in green. I tried to forget you as I drank coffee, and tasted the fruitiness which told me it was the one I didn’t like. I tried to forget you as I watched the bats flying in the growing darkness, fluttering and ducking, black wispy shapes against the grey sky. I tried, and I tried. Perhaps, I’ll have better success tomorrow.


a package arrived today, wrapped soft and tight in a time when it seems every door has slammed, every back turned, every heart closed. the thought of a gift, one in my name, resonates loud and frightening.

underneath the plastic, a knitted blanket. woven in shades of blue; turquoise, navy, teal, turtle green, grey, white.

the warmth of your arms, the softness of you, the safety of you – some of it comes back, knitted in the fibres of the gift, intertwined as we were. but, you see, this one will never grow cold, will never grow to hate me or seek to break me. it will never drop me like a glass into the river.

the blue blanket – do you suppose it remembers how I cried, and scowled, and angered? do you suppose it has kept those records, like you did? a blanket has no use for forgiveness, and so, my bed-mate shall it be.


the babies, Lily Ruth and maybe-baby-Bo,
crinkled faces petal fingers dot noses
that would press on my insides, stretch out my skin
and swell my heart,
the green-eyed golden hybrids of their father and I
excited eyes at the school gate, packed lunches, rosy noses,
runny noses. soft tiny ears.
chicken pox scabs, fussy dinners, gluesticks, glitter, grazes.
those little darlings.

tearful, as the sobs shake my broken body
I have to let them fade. like shadows in the dawn,
dew in the sun’s warmth,
memories in an old, fuzzed mind. sun-bleached paintings,
scars, spots, ink.

never to be, my children, my small loves. you will never
feel my heart against your skull or kick your legs
over your father’s knees. you have no father, no mother, only
existing in the dreams
I dare to dream, even now.
you will not smile for your family, over for tea and cuddles.

I have lost you, tossed you from the wreckage
of my own sinking ship,
and drowned, nonetheless.



Cruel neon man. How you sit,

A lighthouse crooning, a red crow

With thbthb feather

On a waving post. Stretch away


‘A dropping stomach, sir, a stomach that’s dropped.’


I will forget the bitterness of you.

The cold, whistling space

And leave my think trace.


Poetic authority.. pearl poet bubble

Burst here, oxygen peace oxygen


In bedroom comfort, bedroom kind.

Tuck your private mind


The clouds look kind, but choke.

The Good girl

The Good girl sung

And prayed in church

On every Sunday morn.

She closed her eyes

And thanked the Lord

For letting Christ be born.


And all was well

From week to week.

Her heart was full and calm.

That was, until,

The New girl came

And offered Good her palm.


Her eyes were clear,

Her cheeks were soft.

Her lips were red as blood.

The Good girl cursed

Her wicked heart

For falling fast in love.


From then, the church

Was ne’er the same.

It welcomed her no more.

The walls dripped black

And with a smack

They thrust her from its door.

Dunadd – Lois E. Linkens

My latest piece ‘Dunadd’ on FVR, written after a trip to Scotland:


The cold wind slaps across my cheek, slaps hard. 

We are at the crow’s place, the sooty fibres

Of his black-night wings are glossed with rain,

And we see it. We are Gods, beholding

The green scraps of life with scorn and reverence,

For ‘tis one’s duty to maintain the keep. 

You hold me; your black hair shudders frantic

With the breeze, like iron filings bristling

In the magnet’s approach. But you are gleeful, 

You have all you need. The wind and the salt air, 

The thought of eagles crouching not so far,

You are hope; I have seen the eagles atop the pines. 

Flighty sort, haughty, proud – with not a thought

Beyond the stomach’s growl, the rustling bush,

The sweet red gore behind the fur, the scale. 

But you – you with your coffee eyes, gentle

Hands cup my freckled skin – you have mind, and space. 


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