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Tag Archives: Paul Waring
Most days a name that coats tongues – a conversation crumb, ever-present on lips, might be the story of whoosh-spray and wiper blades, a child’s bank holiday face pressed up against car window. Or the desert wanderer, divining what never … Continue reading
She comes back in slipper-step whispers – footfall, creaks on stairs that fill liminal space, the half-world before waking. Somewhere we once called home; Beaconsfield or Dagenham, places some part of me still knows. Bunched lavender breaths from white enamel … Continue reading
You can want something too much— ache as time drags past empty-handed, eyes turned away. Hear elephant feet pace rooms, kick at cortex doors, unanswered. News that never arrives, feeds gut lava. Need that seeps to sear nerve endings like … Continue reading
holidays aren’t made for staying home. Legs ache to run, make footballs fly into open goals— even when it snows. Fingers roll marbles like big cats’ eyes, and feet and bikes never stop growing. Brothers are too big or too … Continue reading
From a gravel bed of ice milk-soft eyes stare from socket shells lemon-dressed ready for splash of tabasco or spoon of mignonette. A dozen oysters to scoop and swallow. You say that first taste is like kissing pillow-plump lips of … Continue reading
By day it’s exercised to death; a tongue wagged for all it’s worth like the tail of a restless dog. By night it guards your side of the bed, chews bones of your thoughts, barks staccato snores. Through wafer-thin sheets … Continue reading
Arms of grief took time to let go, enough for her to see clearly what remained: accumulated dust of days; dried, dead skin of the past. That morning’s first glimpse; awareness that dogs still look at you with the same … Continue reading