Washed-up 1 That washed-up image of a girl I see, I knew her once, or was it she knew me?
Mysterious it lies, foreboding perhaps, a monstrous creature nestled on flat desert plain; deep burnt-earth orange, now red, vermillion, purple
Is it the colour of your skin? Is it the colour of mine? Is it the colour of your skin
What happened six years ago? I moved – not just to a new house, nor even to a new country,
Thirty pieces of silver was all it cost: What price to Him? the bloodied crown of thorns, the scarlet
I have shared my poetry over the months mostly in rhyming or free-verse form. To accompany my recent Autumn photograph