Siobhan Cawson Mooney

lemons I clean my sharp jump rope I’m french-skipping and kissing with handclaps the pointed barbs of her cruel, yellow insults will drive me to cleanse the poison from my heart. There will be lemon-blossoms to dance in as we swing into the sunshine in the city

The Playground At Midsomer Norton County Primary the milk bottles are warming in crates in the morning sun sour by the sickly-tasting elevenses. Standing in line for the portakabin canteen waiting to force down cloying, homemade baked beans, we clap handclap games endlessly teach each other variants of intricate,

Absence the absence revealed eventually the shipwreck on the dry seabed or like the thirsty lake driven back by drought the remains of her were there ~ naked and vulnerable. She had tip-toed between the sleeping dogs, fearful of waking their unquiet spirits; the knowledge there was no mirror for

The Pilot I imagine myself as one of the Chrysalids riding in panniers high on the giant horse, lumbering and swaying through a vast wasteland full of distortions and violent chameleons. I hear excitable chatter in my head, the sound of multitudes on another plane calling me on… I can’