Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Vincent Turner

Vincent resides in Essex UK and has been writing for around ten years, Currently he works as an alcohol and drugs worker. He has two young boys and his fervent hope is that one day they too will be in touch with their muse.

Envying Harry

Like the last strand of soft down
she is never coming back.
Every time it rains, you’ll remember her
running into the garden snatching
clothes from the line, cursing
the gods for their poor timing.
Or how she gritted her teeth,
and broke into sweat,
when grating Cheese.

The dog whimpers most nights
belly up, beside the unlit fireplace
unsure of where you have gone.
Yet being a dog, it forgoes
Misery and longing.
I only have to brush by its bowl;
and he forgets

Only to return to bed
Once fed
to nuzzle his chin upon her pink slipper
which is damp from canine love

and the refusal
to remove her fading rose petal scent.


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