Vicky has worked in book and magazine publishing for 30 years, as an editor, production editor and writer specialising in art, architecture and film. She has a track-record of organising and producing events and publications for educational institutions such as the University of Kent and to raise money for charities including Amnesty International and CND.
After the workshop
We’ve hardly spoken, yet I know the spot where your father
set down his briefcase each night when he came home.
I’ve heard the clatter of his Underwood,
smelled the anger of your mother’s Sunday roast.
I remember when you saw your aunt kiss
the girl from the post office on the neck
of the stairs. I’ve felt the sun warm the oak
of your writing desk, caressed your Chinese figurine.
I’ve told you about how my sister died.
We’ve hardly spoken, yet I know how you love the drone
of manly, Friday-evening mowers, how you long
for the hot breath of a leopard on your cheek.
Lust, you say, is the scrape of a shark’s tooth,
yet the strings of your cello vibrate lonely
in their case. I know how music entered your soul
like a child’s first smile, how happiness
is the clatter of your mother making breakfast.
I think I mentioned I have trouble with my pond.
We’ve hardly spoken, yet I know that in your future
people shrink to the size of mice, dream of poetry
in the ultra-violet nights, wander through cineramas
under the gaze of watchful eyes. I’ve met your inner
warrior, your inner will o’ the wisp, the wild talker
who pops out of your bottle of Smirnoff. It’s May,
and I’ve seen you gather up blossom like confetti, heard
the keening of the plates flying past your ex’s ear.
A dripping tap’s what drives me to distraction, as I said.
I know what you do with Spray Mount in the ladies’ loo.
But did I ever show you my Indian rope trick
