Looking out for Len

‘Len?’ I said, blowing gently on the teacup pressed against my chin, ‘shall I write an article about you?’ I’d been visiting him for a few months by then, blustering in a couple of times a week to boil the kettle and take the edge off of his lonely days. Len is 89. I started…

The Black Hole

The Black Hole was never born in space, Among the stars or down below. Nor on a craggy mountain edge, Though pounded by an ice-cold wind. Lonely like the sun-bleached bones On a sandy plain that’s long forgot. Hurting like the splitting rocks, That shriek out-loud as they turn to sand. The Black Hole lies…