It is worth remembering that I cannot remember.

At the start of the year, it rained for weeks; abingdon road was flooded- halting traffic and I was nearly late for work.
Every bus ride into Oxford city centre became more of a frustration. What do I do when I'm angry? Vent by writing!




The rain became the puddles that grew into  floods.
The allotments were soaked;
Vegetables awash, cultivated by wheelbarrows
As the gardeners rushed to save their stock.
The sandbags provided were useless
But will be mentioned in the paper that they were used.

Let me introduce myself (again)

I am a month late to begin my New Years resolution of starting to write again. After university, real life had taken over my ability to multitask; no longer can I watch television and begin a first draft of a poem. No longer can I eat a pot noodle without feeling guilty (the less said about that, the better!)

My twin sister got me a new notebook last week. This was my attempt of starting to write again.


Words mumble out of that mouth
-unclear, unresponsive. I shrug them off.
Our room is bare, except for the dying magnolias
Put in a chipped glass for a vase. The petals curve
Inwards, cradling each other. Their colours bruise the room,
A present from your mother. Our suitcase stays alert
By the front door ,where the lock doesn't work,
As if we will have a change of mind,
leave before Christmas
But the room was paid for in pennies,
Found in pockets and piggy banks.