Organised by

Guernsey Literary Festival

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Supported by

Guernsey Arts

The day before my mother dies
         lying on a sunken bed
                  she wends a river through the room

                  each word a steady flow
         whispered over rocks. Jagged shapes
lodged in her throat, prove obstacles. In time

a breeze helps rub them smooth, rushing
         to re-tell her life, battered on the shore
                  forced along by currents

                  she did not control. At night
                           her breath calm now, she takes
                                    a sudden turn, aims towards the sun.