It seemed to be February. I started to read poems about this month, where the bleakness was soldered onto the paper. And then I looked at my screen and saw it was the last day of January. Still January.
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Once upon a time, a spectre left the delicate tracery of its presence on the window of an empty house. It was a fingerprint from another dimension.
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‘All the World’s a Stage’
It’s an empty space – a gap between two ancient walls – bridged by a borrowed roof. Two, low-stone-arched doorways, through which flow 350 international students…
Read MoreThere it goes again,
again and again and again,
that mysterious light
in the middle of the night
lurking in the shadows.