The Welsh Dragon
the winter sun comes blasting through the tinted Welsh windows and my skin feels it all at once, sudden and warm after the cold grey miles. through the glass the valleys roll on soft and endless, the long grass bending and lifting in the winter wind like it’s breathing slow and easy with the land.
The Honey Jar
and so the boy tormented them, day after day, those workers on the hot African farm, until they wouldn’t bring his tea and biscuits anymore, hands trembling at the thought of him — that pale cruel child with his secret games. sometimes he’d slide it up his sleeve, where it tickled and crawled against his