Aarne-Thompson-Uther Type 310


We’re all maids in a tower now (I’ll be

Petrosinella – like Rapunzel but


empowered, with a handful of magic

acorns), locked inside four walls, unwashing


our hair, unshaving our armpits and legs,

loosening the casement once a day 


to throw bits of old bread to bemused birds, 

baking things we don’t intend to share. 


Men lurk meaningfully outside, sighing

for a woman’s touch; they fret their guitars,


scan their plague poems below our windows,

explain how the two-metre rule doesn’t mean


we’re not allowed to talk. Please, they beg.

Inside we sharpen scissors, cut our hair.

published as part of Stories in the Time of Covid-19 on MIROnline



iamb ~ poetry seen and heard

Poetry read by poets: listen to three poems here 

Published work


'Epicedium'  Butcher's Dog 14

'Chiaroscuro'  One Hand Clapping

'Floss'  The Interpreter's House 74

'Amulet' and 'Aarne-Thompson-Uther Type 310' Mechanics' Institute Review

'In the shower with Gerard Manley Hopkins'  Ink Sweat & Tears


'After us'  Poetry Birmingham 3

'Caution Your Blast'  Dust Poetry  

'Home'  Acumen 96

'Sunset Over Watford'  Ambit 215

'The man who has no curtains' and 'Shatterproof Life' Fire 28