Skyscrapers, their feet Set in concrete, Watch over the smoggy city street. The needles of factory chimneys Spin fluffy cotton clouds Into dreary mundane grey funeral shrouds To spread on the city street. Only the gaudy glow Of neon-lit store fronts Pierces the murky smog…

It’s been seven years since I first introduced myself to this incredible group. And I’m still writing poetry, still putting it out there, still finding (sometimes!) homes for what crystallises from my inner chaos. I love my annual participation in the Half Marathon: I’ve made…