after Philip Larkin

The trees are standing still and grey
Like ships unrigged and calcified;
Their trunks shine ghostly at first light,
No breath or breeze to make them sway.

So what if they've already died
While we live on? Well, we'll die too.
Same golden sunsets, sparkling dew,
Just no one on the mountainside.

It's past midday, the tall masts silent stacks.
Ravaged and reproachful as Gethsemane,
'You made us thus,' they seem to say,
'Go back, go back, go back.'

‘Fiction is becoming darker, weirder, bent-out-of-shape’

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Living with my father: ‘It is hard to love an addict’

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My Year of Rest and Relaxation review: an arresting, original read

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A tale of poverty and survival: the economic reality of being a writer

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Geraldine Mitchell’s third collection, “Mountains for Breakfast”, was published by Arlen House in 2017