At night the walls turn crimson red,
Your phantom chest is ‘neath my head,
The smell of comfort settles in
Among the tingles on my skin
That still remain from days ago,
My ribcage in your hand to show
We fit like jigsaw pieces do.
But night no longer summons you
And so I watch the walls return to blue.

- p. winter

intended on a sandwich maybe from the convenience store with the metal cafe seating outside

had noticed the chip shop and remembered that those and fish shops would be closed on mondays as no fishing on sundays then

now we are overfishing, killing those that live at sea

then see

it was open

chose small chips with salt and vinegar to taste while he enquired if i was on holiday

brightened up when i mentioned the bus from dolgellau

i had cash for him as required hidden from myself in the unaccustomed bag

sat carefully on a town bench and ate all the tiny crunchy bits and crumbs of fried batter from the edge indispersed with fatter juicy ones which sagged and dripped goo nicely

fortunately found a fairly clean cotton handkerchief in my jacket pocket for wiping face and fingers

could not eat them all

despite the small

portion and wrapped back up for later

my jacket is green with three quarter sleeves and have had it a while now

it was after that i found the marked robber’s grave in the church yard

My tears are dry
as a bone. I cried
many teardrops
that froze to my

face. They turned
to icicles and cut
as razor blades. I bled
out all the red myself

in bed. I turned
hard from the cold, as
the grass in my yard
under a blanket of

snow. I’ve dug
an impression none can
see. The sun doesn’t shine
on me. When you’re a rock

they look at you
as a mismatched sock. None
can tell I fought to grow
between the blades and bitter snow.

went to town yesterday, saw the signs of another
world. stood in the bank some time, only one
assistant these days.


the sun colours the clouds with empathy.

the bracken fields
fill with rainwater
the submerged cartwheel rots
as kale sways
in the outlier fields

After the languid storm
cold against the grass
winter beeches thrive
as the flotsam swirls by
the Riverside
fills their proverbial prose