In memoriam: Jo Cox

It only takes one shot to stop a heart
that beats in praise of life, that’s warm and large.
We stand together, or we fall apart.

It only takes one minute to revert
to villainy, one gunman with a grudge.
It isn’t just the shot that stops our hearts

but – what’s worse – the mind that’s closed to hurt,
panic that opts to wall and fence and hedge.
We stand together, or we fall apart.

It’s easy now to harden into hate,
to hear a cry for help, refuse to budge.
Not moving works a shift that stops our hearts.

With every sneer, snarl, slander, snipe and spit
we aggravate the rage, inflame the itch.
We hold together, or we break apart.

There’s still a chance of cooling off the heat,
still enough time to inch back from the ledge.
Don’t let the shit, the shot, shut down your heart:
we stand together or we fall apart.

RIP Jo Cox


Jo Cox MP was murdered yesterday in the course of her work as the elected representative of the people of the town of Batley in Yorkshire. 

Gâche melée


Apple peel spirals, the big mixing bowl
sailor-striped and chipped as old teeth:
a tickle of cinnamon, scratch of nutmeg.

Great waves of sugar, the flour and suet
scooped and folded, stroked or beaten.
A battered square tin: perhaps the rust

improves the flavour. Heave the gloop in,
feel its suck and pull, the letting go
clinging as embraces on a quayside.

Food for cowherds, trawlermen. You
anchored the ordinary, reeled us from winter
to a fading light swollen with scents of apples.


This poem won first prize in the Guernsey International Poetry Competition, 2016 and will appear on one of Guernsey’s buses.

Stephanie Bottrill’s morning walk


it was all so neat
the way she sorted her possessions
into boxes
little labels marking them
for bedroom or for kitchen
she would never use

it was all so neat
the way she packaged up her life
knowing she could not afford to stay
knowing she could not afford
the choice she had been offered

it was all so neat
the way she organised farewells
the notes, the way she wanted to make sure
she would not cause too much trouble
and her cause was too much trouble
uprooted from the garden she had cared for
uprooted from the home she’d made
told that everything would have to end

and everything would have to end
and so she tidied, packaged, organised
uprooted books of memories
uprooted photographs
with a gardener’s tenderness
uprooted every year
drawing a neat line under it all

she’d told her family she was worried
told her doctor she was worried
worried that the tax on her spare room
would uproot her
because she could not afford to stay
it would not be fair to stay
when others were in need

and so she made her mind up
neatly tidied up her place
tidily uprooted
wrote out her little labels
wrote out her little notes
each one of them uprooting
tidily destroying all those little things

and she was such a little person
so insignificant that no-one noticed
no-one noticed when she walked out from her home
no-one noticed her beside the motorway

until a moment of uprooting


• This poem first appeared in issue 3 of The Poets’ Republic, and has also been published on I Am Not A Silent Poet.