Monday, April 28, 2008


In searching for scraps of work to build a blog post I found this poem I wrote for Carrie’s 50th birthday earlier this year; I made her a scrapbook of our holiday in Gran Canaria.


My friend spreads her branches
all the way from Aberdeen
down the wind to me.

A tree with hands like rafts
and a heart to slice for stepping stones;
she is my wand.

We are driving music, rock legends
for grown-up women
and elegant drunks.

Stages of our growth are evident
in albums, in sequences, in
sentences finished.

The future flashes images of dreams
and rings around trunks till
zimmers surround us.

And this, is a funny find; I have no idea where it’s from, except a vague recollection of a game we played on WF in Writewords...yeah that was definitely it. Different people gave the POV and subject. Actually it was Facebook. Oh, I am getting old. 

Here’s my piece: handbag from pov of poor student.

My God, she must’ve made this. She’s crocheted it with straw; never seen anything like it; little fans or shell shapes with bobbles, and bloody bells. Bloody hell, but it is kinda cute. There’s hardly anything in it - eight pens is a bit excessive. I like the fancy rosettes on the front. Cosmopolitan: that must be some kind of label, not for her though; that wouldn’t describe her – she matches her bags. It’s scary how she discovers the stuff she wears and cooks up. I think one day this bag will be in a museum; someone will take it apart and analyse it all to hell – and come out with bollocks. It’s practically empty and I can’t find what I’m looking for.

‘Where’s your purse Mum? It’s not in here.’

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