Lemonade Anemone

I recently wrote this poem, based on an experience I had when I was nineteen. In light of the fact that at least 125 women have been killed in UK since Sarah Everard was kidnapped and murdered, it felt important to write about my own experience. This poem has a content note for stalking – if that’s not something you’re keen to read about, feel free to click away. Look after yourself. And, if you're worried about any of the issues that turn up in the poem, you can speak to Women's Aid , Refuge , or Brook .  *** Hypothetically Speaking   Say you see me, getting off the train. Say it’s past midnight, and the taxi rank stands empty. The chip shop closed hours ago, but the sharp scent of vinegar and grease lingers. The concrete bus shelter opens wide, like a mouth.   Say you see me cross the car park, stepping carefully through broken glass. Ascending the stairs to the bridge over the tracks.   Say you watch me stop at the top, look back, move forward.   Say you follow me then, thro

How many strangers do you come into contact with every week?  I have a weird job. I’m a poet and an educator, and a lot of my work revolves around visiting schools, colleges, and community projects, giving people the opportunity to try poetry and creative writing.  The job requires me to talk to a lot of people who I wouldn’t otherwise come into contact with.  Over the past few weeks, I’ve been working with a group of adults with learning disabilities and mental health challenges, as well as a group of professional storytellers, a group of autistic kids, poets writing over Zoom, three young writers’ groups, and a conference room full of sixth form students looking for volunteering opportunities in the arts.  In fact, in an average week, I probably talk to hundreds of new people. And that’s scary. Isn't it? After all, strangers are unpredictable, unreliable, possibly even dangerous. Right?   I really don't believe that's true. In fact, talking to strangers is my absolute fav