She used to write poetry, my mother. Then she aged; her memory faded ...

I nuzzle my face into her neck, like a child. / My memory of comfort colliding with / The hollow feeling that’s fear. ...

Sing the earth as you walk, Shout into wind lifting your hair. Laugh at rain falling from sodden skies, Splash through puddles ...

I've spent weeks agonising about this website and trying to work out how to set it up. Last night I messaged my special women ...