Gone Lawn have published 2 of my inheritance prose poems 'At the edge of the mist', and 'What's a pond?' in their 'Worm Moon 2025 ' issue. Many thanks to Owen. A bit of background about Gone Lawn:
We desire: magical and shiny things, and unusual and/or innovative works that displace us charmingly, that baffle the fence-setters of our verdant lands and whisk away all of their dreary tools. Gone Lawn is especially partial to odd garden animals. Our arm-spans welcome fiction, prose and prose poetry, as well as visual and audio work and both audio and visual.
https://gonelawn.net/journal/issue59/Newbold.php
At the edge of the mist
I find a boat, two oars & a chocolate bar. I know you are here — the weather dictates. The boat hull knocks at the shore, rhythms at my door, and I of course accept. The seat’s still warm. Will you sit beside me? Or shall I row out to find you? I am still, alone. Chocolate bar nibble, your favourite, the crinkle of silver foil stirs the mist. After a while it is time — the morning alarm rings. I do not want to leave, although I do, as all good daughters do, leaving you a blanket to warm against the chill.
What’s a pond?
From my daughter’s smallness, as we school run: hands stretch, unicorn-bag slips, smile peeks at the edge of the question. A pond? I dip the traffic noise to her horizon — my hip, number 39’s roses last spring, the street name sign she cannot read yet, the dandelion clocks that wait. A pond, she mirrors (with the patience of a mother asking for shoes to be put on yet again), eyes catalogue, search my assumed encyclopaedia. Granny’s were green, comprehension worn, volume after illustrated volume. Mother’s are blue, hard cover bound, gold embossed, weighty. We were taught to look for the first letter, then the next, to seek the distinction. And I say, what all good mothers say, the ocean, caught and held, for the night swimming mermaids.
