Second-favourite holiday

We ate sand blown

into our sandwiches by endless

westerly breezes, picked at sand

encrusted on fingers, feet

and lips, glued everywhere

by salt-sticky sea.

We shivered under flimsy towels

after surfboards dumped us

onto scratchy stones, peeled

skin from each other’s backs.

We pigeon-stepped the coastal

path, leaning into a storm

that made our jackets billow,

fell ill on greasy pasties, fell out

as rain drowned our day of games.

Adult-free, we roamed

the cliffs while the sea crunched

its teeth below, and salty,

scratchy summer stretched

ahead forever.

Poems

Note from the poet

In Second-favourite holiday, I look back on childhood holidays that were far from perfect: there is sand in the sandwiches, scraped skin, cold towels, greasy food, arguments and endless rain. Yet these uncomfortable details are exactly what make the memory so vivid and affectionate. I wanted to capture the freedom of being young and “adult-free,” when even a stormy, uncomfortable holiday could feel like an adventure and the summer seemed to stretch ahead forever. The title is deliberately understated and slightly ironic; the holiday may not have been perfect, but it has remained an important and deeply comforting part of my past.

A selection of my poems

Washing up

She stirred the noisy cups

in soapy water, coaxed

their dirt into a corner with gentle strokes,

and left the house soaked in silence.

Water caught her sleeves,

and the scum,

rising in cool waves, etched its mark

like a tree’s growth ring.

She tipped the bowl. Steam rose

blurring her face in the glass.

Note from the poet

In Washing Up, I use the everyday act of washing dishes as a metaphor for the often unseen emotional labour carried by women, particularly those who are older and have spent years caring for others. The careful cleaning of the cups reflects a quiet, patient effort to restore order, while the surrounding silence suggests the loneliness and invisibility that can accompany this work. The image of the scum leaving a mark “like a tree’s growth ring” hints at the accumulation of years, responsibilities, and experiences. In the final lines, the steam blurring the woman’s reflection suggests how a lifetime of nurturing and service can sometimes obscure a sense of self, leaving her identity partially hidden behind the routines of daily life.

Dad

He wouldn’t take his coat off,

left it clinging skin-tight, face

a slot in a suit of armour,

mouth squeezed shut

like an acid lemon,

eyes watering, nose just breathing,

ears clamped. The rest parried,

rocked, then rusted,

still in the room

but locked from the inside.

Note from the poet

In Dad, I observe the emotional restraint of an older generation of men, particularly the expectation that vulnerability should be hidden and feelings kept under control. The coat becomes a metaphor for emotional armour: he cannot, or will not, take it off, allowing no one access to what lies beneath. His “mouth squeezed shut” and “ears clamped” suggest both the suppression of his own emotions and an inability to hear or respond to those of others, while his “watering” eyes betray the feelings he is trying to contain. The language of defence, “armour” and “parried”, gradually gives way to “rocked, then rusted,” suggesting that what once protected him has, over time, become a source of confinement. Although he remains physically present, the final image of being “locked from the inside” captures the loneliness of a man imprisoned by his own emotional defences.

listening to rain

whether it hammers down in Delhi

spits in Split

drips on a shed roof

or slaps the tent

could be just a spatter

or a flood knee-deep

it doesn’t really matter it still

sends me to sleep

Note from the poet

In Listening to Rain, I explore the simple, universal comfort of rain and the almost hypnotic effect it has on me. The poem travels through different places and forms of rainfall, from the force of rain that “hammers” down in Delhi to the gentle “drips” on a shed roof, suggesting that its particular character doesn’t really matter. Whether it is a spatter or a flood, rain creates its own soothing rhythm, one that quietens the world and sends me into sleep. The poem is intentionally simple and conversational, celebrating an ordinary sensory pleasure and the deeply soporific comfort of listening to rain.

0:30

I set the timer

thirty seconds

that’s all

those seconds

at the start stretch

when you watch

the numbers go down

at five

there is a rush

for it to end

and then it’s done

Note from the poet

In 0:30, I use the simple experience of watching a thirty-second timer to explore the strange way we experience time. At first, the seconds seem to stretch endlessly as we wait for them to pass, but as the countdown approaches its end, time suddenly accelerates. The poem is deliberately spare, allowing the final “and then it’s done” to suggest something much larger than the timer itself, the way life can seem long when we are young, yet increasingly compressed as we move towards its end. For me, the poem captures the unsettling realisation that time may not actually change, but our perception of it certainly does.