The Drought
the barns bulge with rot. heaps of marrow and turnip gone black and swollen. the harvest turning to mush under the glare of the sun. out on the land, the cattle drop, legs buckling into the dust, the hides split and caked in flies. dust blown into the furrows. the dirt won’t hold a seed.
Private Screening
it was a private screening, no appointment, just the final masterpiece there on the wall. and him — part of it now, framed complete. like an artist’s work, it was modern, strokes of gaudy colour with thick applications of material, no planning, no design. on a large canvas of magnolia it lay, a perfect wash
Fava Beans
the soup again tonight, using up the stale crust of bread from Saturday, only tonight I bought a tin of fava beans from the corner shop, breaking a thirty-year silence I hadn’t meant to break. I’d gone down there for the paper, and just as I passed under the flats, old Mrs Rodriguez tipped her
The Landlord
I let myself in on Monday evening with the spare key on its green plastic tag. Three months of unpaid rent had passed, and the smell in the hall already carried what waited on the other side of the door. and there you were, in the centre of the room, suspended from the rafters, toes
Hyde Park
Hyde Park on a Sunday, the sun pressing down like a hot boot on the back of the neck. kids on plastic scooters scraping the hot concrete like they’re trying to file the day down to nothing. bicycles with training wheels squeaking through the legs of mums and dads who just want a bench before