PoetryThe rosy she-oak table gleams, laden with bowls of steamy stew, a bottle of red and four glasses. The glissando of our voices. She tells the story of her garbage bin. The stink which turns out to be a rat, which gnawed open a crack...

PoetryIn Afghanistan, a widow receives my monthly stipend, a small apology as I monitor my intake of news, post a cheque but can’t stomach the photos.   My widow’s daughters, swathed in black, don’t attend school, they’re shadowed even in the marketplace by the insistent drone –   a Reaper, navigated by a pilot in...

GR OnlineOnce, magpies squabbled overheadwhile kookaburras stared.At dusk, our car was a boatin a tide of cattle,tails swishing, bitumen studdedwith steamy dung. The road un-scrolled to reveala python basking in the last rays.We travelled slower then, windowsun-wound through a tunnel of...

PoetryYou never tire of the sky,caught within the frame and sash,spun sugar, your tongue can almost tastebefore it melts away.You bask in brushstrokesmilky blue,where white fire congealsinto shaggy buffalo and swans.Mornings are paleto match the tint of these four...