Summer’s end Your eyes are like honey. Your brows are like smooth thick fluffy caterpillars. Charlie snorted. Out her window, blue peeped...

If you close your eyes on the ward the machines no longer sound like machines, but like birds in a wood. Wood pigeons, say, insistent –...

The morning is grey. Pigeons flutter past the window, but the chill of the world still grips everything from the tips of their wings to...