I was prepared to feel alone, expected the government-mandated 2-metre gap to yawn between us, cold and hostile. I expected these new spaces to be voids, to confirm our separateness. Instead, these distances have borne a new kind of touch, now that touch (skin on skin) is not permitted.As I walk past you, one of us stepping onto the road,

I’m not under an illusion,you weren’t sent from up above.But what makes my heart beat faster?Well, it simply isn’t love. I make my own decisions in lifeand I really don’t follow fashion,but though you pervade my thoughts and dreams,well, it simply isn’t passion. I just want to be in your presenceand to see you is a must.Your embrace is what

Bent double, like the homeless under sacks,knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed Johnson’s fudge.Then on the failing beeb we turned our backs,and, allowing for the distancing we judge,we march; asleep though, deceived by brutes,by callous advisors, bloodied, killing lame and weaker kind.Drunk are we with fatigue; deaf even as data shootsup Covid deaths, a sharp remind. Pass! PASS! Quickly there!

Twelve milestones: 1: I have always wished to serve my country=I wanted to make a pile 2: It is politically motivated slander=It’s probably true. 3: No comment=It is true. 4: I have done nothing wrong=You don’t have enough evidence yet. 5: The accusation is unjustified=You don’t have enough evidence yet. 6: I will not resign=I hope to get away with

The waterman, with muffled oars, drew near – as midnight tolled.His passenger was huddled as in fear – against the river’s cold.The Tower’s silent walls loomed darklit only by the single guiding sparkto Water Gate. The sentry took the bow when it was sighted – and tied the rope.The passenger drew breath and then alighted – without much hope.She led

Cracked black velvet backs riseFrom glistening gold indigo shores.Piercing the veil, bright blinking pinheadsCast anti shadows into the depth.Downy white across the deep VHides the light then gone, bright.Serpents, slight, barely visible,Zig then zag, high then low.Glowing mites move back and forthThen give in to the yielding edge.The distance far and inky, but palpable,A heavy, warm, breathable soft. Rachel Baxter,

I saw a shadow last night,dark, weaving the moon into words,beneath silvery linings of premature petals,that moaned to stings of impatient bees. so my ears wiggled to the music ofthe breeze drowning my thoughtswatching empty streets dancing to treblesand the dusty windows that adorned temples. I wonder:Are there missuses trapped in houses without their men?Are there missuses trapped in houses

Harmonics –“Secondary tones which form a component of every musical sound, though they are not distinctly heard.” I am my own sightoday, breathingin and out of my self. I am the curlof the nautilus shell,sealing chamberswithin its self,cementing wallswith its selfso it can risein the darklife-ridden wavesthat hum recklessly,that rock. All day I’ve arrivedhome to my want,doubled back to it,wanted