Monica Suswin is a writer in the developing field of reflective and therapeutic writing. Widely published in anthologies, she runs a studio retreat for women writers (www.cabinonthehill.co.uk).
Ice crystals will cluster across her chest
cover incisions for tubes and clamps.
Now snug in a snow-suit
under a hand-knitted shawl.
There is no rise or fall
We never knew the colour of her eyes.
They never opened for that first gaze
of mother. Nor for this winter snow.
The interlocking bones of god’s architecture
foxy slithers from under the shed
all hot stink seeped into layer upon layer of cedar shingles
whilst you are peddling along paths
leaving your valley, your tors
as I rake stones sweep dry leaves bones
until you arrive unbuckle panniers untether rucksack
too soon a wave, off you cycle
foxy’s skeleton harnessed to your back
spine against spine
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