Featured Poem

Where I’m from

My mountain is a dusty London hill,

where dogs and runners tussle at its crest

to view the smog-bound city, hot and still.

Dedicated benches provide rest. 

My river is a subterranean force,

flowing under Camden to the sea,

filling up with sewage on its course,

unseen, unloved by many except me.

My people are an under-flavoured stock:

Vikings sliced with Celts and boiled for days,

vicars, sheriffs, chips from the same block

providing worthy meals in tasteless ways.

I’m swimming in a gene pool deep and wide;

I’ve left three half-read novels on the side.