Carol Rumens

We broke slim boughs to stir and sift the leaf-mould.

I was befogged by earth-colours, my earthbound sight an Axminster

of swirling oak-leaves, beech-mast, till I had trimmed my focus

to detail, even acquired a touch of your magical foresight.

Seroyeshky, you called them: mushrooms for eating raw,

but better cooked, you said, in spite of the nickname.

Some were pale red, some amber; the slugs...

They flop their big, blunt heads over the wire like dim children penned in hospital cots. Eyes roll, and a silvery iris-petal unfurls to lick the salt from my bare arm. Then each takes it in turn to show its backside in a long, lumbering furniture removal. Bored with my love, they lean to their emerald feast. They never tire of it. They are factories building themselves in many meat-hung...

Shah maat – the King is dead

It’s like an examination – or some vast dinner party where the guests sit in pairs and politely demolish each other. Your ranks of hunted shoulders and frowns attest the passion of the quest. For you are unravelling a childhood, inching back. You cross the polite, hushed street – its pawn cars in a line, its mitred evergreens – and...