I was born here, under Maggie’s rule. Living beneath her Spitting Image character hanging from a telecom wire overhead. The youth here knew hate before they knew love and everybody hated the Iron Lady. Everything [… read more ]
By Helen Elliott Salt-spray foam glided over shell and stone with all else still despite the season. I cleansed my lips to taste the day dropped my gaze, blocked out the grey counted colours; speckled [… read more ]
By Helen Elliott Pastel palette beach huts Sun-bleached on the Solent, pebbled sands, Awaiting summer’s curtain call The closing of her seasonal demands. On the morrow, they stand weary To greet autumn aurora with [… read more ]
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