Dusk she listens, casts a cloak as cool begins to seep and lovers wait the gate is warm wood and lichened earth as pungent as a pulled berry sunken in musk see the hare leap their secret safe in its eyes dusk folds light’s edges they part strangers outside the frame
Verse plant onions dig potatoes coin sense from the silt and crumb grow wild flowers where stench lingers above the weeping
Jenny is a published writer of poetry and prose at present working on short fiction. She also makes abstract ceramics. Graduating from the Royal central School in London some years ago, she followed a career in the performing arts and has walked in many worlds. The juxtaposition of life in all its cadences continues to inspire her, especially so at this stranger than strange time.
Grand Little Things 