Sign up to our newsletter
I saw a bride splendid in white garmentsI saw a woman with one hundred children The children plump and firm within her arms,
Dada has stories from Calcuttawrapped up in his big belly.When he belched they would unravel.
'Why do you run?' I asked the river,'So fast I can't compete.''I run,' the river said, 'becauseI have some streams to meet.'
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
At dawn, she climbs over the horizonto slink between the curtainsand rest her head on your pillow.
Which can be brushed out long and fineto lie across a pillowor bunched and scrunched into an angryknot of rain before it is undone, when long hanks of it hang
Thomas Farynor, Baker to the King,Left his oven burning with the firewood nearby.The embers muttered, the little flames took wing
The sea lays big glass hands on the sand,spreading its fingers out as if newto the shore. It can’t quite believe in it.It wants to hold on before the glass breaks.