By Anna Royle – Creative Writing Editor
The coach seats remind me
of my childhood fear,
of being swallowed
by a roll of carpet hanging
in a carpet shop. The fluffy fibres
stuffing my nostrils
until I fall asleep.
The thought of the purple vein
that you pointed out, on the curl
of my ear, pressed against the cold glass,
makes my toes retract. My skull rattles
next to empty fields and fields
turned grey by the moonlight.
My scarf scantily comforts
my ten deniered legs, plucks
like smudged ink
expose tiny dots of skin,
I hope the cows are somewhere warm.