In a pub of pensioned men
and stale décor,
two newly women enter:
one fires her smile.

She’s young and tough,
and her hair says she’s trying too hard,
and she’s occupying clothes
that leave so much caress undressed:
she’s raw, her own self–portrait.

But that glance was mercantile:
I was about to buy a drink.
Yet the smile was welcome,
like the scent of shocked basil
on a humid summer day.

the liberation of [placeholder]

I find your style, visually and verbally, engaging and individual while utterly without posturing. Which is not the norm on any count. (Randolph Healy)

A work of art and a labour of love, worth every penny of the 16 pound asking price, The Liberation of [Placeholder] will grace any coffee table. More please. … I want to hold [this] up as a model for where, in this digital age, poetry in print should be bound. Poetry collections as artefacts …. (The Journal, Autumn 2012)