Amanda

Dawn

At dawn
nothing stirs but blossoms
caught a-whirl in wind.

Inky fabric
prickled with light
a maze of stars.

Inside me,
he grew delicate roots
brittle as glass.

Sparkling star-like
on roses, dewdrops
ignited by sunrise.

At dawn
torn blossoms litter our bed:
storm damage.

A breeze whispers
through the peony roses
expelling scents of Mum.

‘A bent on existentialism bubbles beneath the surface of Emmy’s flawlessly crafted Instagram world.’

‘We imprint ourselves on our personal space.’

‘When you think about a story character, do you ever think about their rituals or routines?’

‘A slice of moon provides a night-light as I cradle my suckling newborn…’