Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

English Rose

She kissed me and called me her English rose,

like that luscious lullaby,

that we heard on the shop radio, as we held hands in the freezer section.

I was frozen by my indecision.

Did I tell her about how complex my identity was, or let her rest, with her cute nickname for the girl she loved?

Did I have to overcomplicate it?

All around me,

ice was thawing,

and it was dawning on me, that sometimes, someone loves you beyond reason,

and it’s unreasonable to pick their affection apart,

so I left my lips busy with an ice lolly,

poised and perfect like an English rose.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The English Daughter Of An Immigrant

There is a river of ruby running up my arms and down my legs,

and in my chest,

a vault of vermillion,

a million shades soar all through my body,

and while my loyalties are split,

I still gave my heart to this island,

in part,

an honest, open heart,

split across the shining waves of the majestic Mediterranean.

Drowning with my hands untied.

I am at my most beautiful,

at the bottom of the ocean,

no longer conflicted,

no longer gifting my soul to one side or another,

just sleeping among the fishes,

as they leak into my dreams with sweet lullabies.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Here Lies That Sad Girl From The Internet

Where will the statue of me reside?

When I am a pile of bones in the ground,

rarely recalled by my son,

who has his own life to lead,

and manages to make it back on February 1st,

with roses and poppies to place on a headstone,

where I am identified as a wife and a mother who tried her best,

and a sad girl who fell apart on stage every night for the little time she graced the planet with her presence.

I like to think there will be a statue,

in some town centre,

where I meant a lot to people,

because I wasn’t a slave trader,

or a coloniser,

just a poet and a pop singer,

who liked to pretend she was special,

so labelled herself as “Alternative”.

I can see her,


but I can never picture where she ends up,

because in the flesh,

I don’t know where I belong,

so I don’t know where to set myself in stone.

I will be buried in Barcelona,

but she and I have not shared sunsets and moonlit moments for quite some time,

so I often wonder if she has forgotten me,

grown less fond of me,

can’t consider herself a home to me,

and so I consider if I will be Dartford’s favourite daughter instead,

claiming Kent,

not by birth,

but by sticking around,

drawing out my residence like Charles Dickens,

growing wild and memorable around the ankles of the county,

becoming beloved by the garden of England.

There’s always London,

of course.

Everyone can go home to London.

That’s the beauty of it,

because London doesn’t care how you got there,

it just cares that you stay,

and that you buy your lunch at Pret,

so maybe I’ll buy my lunch at Pret,

long enough for them to tear down some crumbling, unappealing old man,

and remember me instead.