Stripped or gone to seed. By Hallowe’en the garden’s falling back on its laurels; its hollies, ivies and all its evergreens. ~ Neat, how every now and then metaphors declare themselves: you’re a robin; I’m a wren. ~ Propped up in bed half listening for the post half in a dozy […]
The setting sun accentuates a day’s activity in sand shadows that soften, resolving footprints into anonymous hollows. Mini-avalanches subtract the who, why and when. The strand relaxes, easing itself into oblivion.
Jean Bleakney talks about her series of ‘-ion’ poems.
Jean Bleakney talks about gardening and how she came to poetry.
Jean Bleakney talks about her love of dictionaries and one-word poem titles.
