A wine glass sinks, tolling,
an undersea village bell

As if drought could ever empty it
the well of grief glimmers full
topped up like a bitter drink
we never ordered.

Because of,
or perhaps despite
my whisperings,
the African violet thrives.

When I woke this morning,

Like a thatched cottage
on a windswept isle
abandoned,
this edifice too, will settle,
sink slowly, thistle-deep
into loam.

By Kathleen Holliday I, too, had great expectations. To be or not to be a wife defined my life. My dowry guaranteed a husband, and I would be a mother, helpmeet, nurse. Nothing could be worse than that damning epithet: old maid. Left at the altar – jilted. My bouquet wilting, I drew my veil […]

It is time for putting away – and yet,
An aura lingers over a photograph,
A card or two.

Of himself, there is hardly a sign;
Red roses in the vase blacken

I hoped to burst into leaf
(Having read it worked for her)
My toes sunk deep into brown carpet,
Arms branching toward the ceiling –