A correct map of 29 Columbine Road

would include the corner honeysuckle hedge and two houses with high walls. Not ours, at first. When did it change? A pink hibiscus in the corner bed is where the hiding-place might be. Two white-yellow oleanders each side of the gate, their seeping white sap not safe. The wet path, too, when it rains the

all breakfast?

The muse had sent virtual sustenance: a simple bowl of porridge supporting a few red raspberries. The image nourished my desk-bound soul.

Ulterior motives

It was very suspicious the way that whale rolled over and opened its mouth for tips, then set fireworks to the water gods from its blowhole. — Whales have featured in my poetry before. Like sluice gates and bears, whales prefigure as a childhood fascination. In my first or second year of school, we learnt

Proper Poetry

The beam of a true poem balances when each pan hovers with just right the weight. A real poem contains rhyme; Each line leads us to a prediction. — When I was at junior school, it was the end-of-term duty of the girls in the highest class, Standard 5, to gather news from each year.

The man-eating ants at the pantaloni party

From this time last year, a poem about little creatures getting up to mischief. * While searching the interweb for images of ant and insect circuses, I came across this diverting article about flea circuses on Dark Roasted Blend. DRB is self-billed as “a highly visual ‘Weird & Wonderful’ online magazine to complement your daily coffee ritual”.

Rooftop Thoughts

From this time last year: an essay about a painting of Covent Garden rooftops. The image triggered a series of personal memories about school art history lessons and my ‘London Granny’.

The Age Show

Roll up! Roll up! To see the hairy Caucasian lady with her mandible chin hairs protruding since she long gave up plucking or pulling or waxing them off. And nobody else cares to do it for her. Hairs and cavernous wrinkles! Roll up! It’s not a wig. That’s naturally grey. Under the chin? A wattle

She’d read it in books

“His father beat him around the head. Only a little bit on Wednesdays, after pay day, or on Friday late, after the races. Clean up your mess, boy!” The teachers preferred her creative writing to include such notable topics. So mature for her age! — In the accompanying essay to yesterday’s posted poem, I wrote

I learnt

I learnt not to throw a tennis ball indoors. That’s how you shatter a ginger jar. I also learnt one should not break a violin bow. Did I snap it or cause the hairs to explode? If your nose is running, and your mother is pinning your ballet costume don’t move. If she pins you,