This morning it smells of cut grass and summer
and there’s a wetness in the air.
On my legs, my tights stick
and already my jumper is too hot.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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The raindrops on the washing line
look pretty after the storm.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Anxiety
sits in my shoulders
like a bird
without wings
watching
the approach of winter.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Nestled in the nook of the window,
a moth,
sheltered
between concrete and wood.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Watching a man
sandblast a building –
cleaning one level,
dirtying the next.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 