Poetry

April opens to sheep shorn moorland, the munch of their black muzzles and their yellow-jellied eyes her only companions on the trackways

Out here with my hood down, my hair wet on my lunch break from the post office where no one can see and no one can laugh I’m a dancer—I mean—in the wind I’m the greatest dancer ever born.

I peed by the side of a track, watching banks and banks of tall, willowy reeds rippling out like wheaty sheets over their marshy beds.