A poem — “Love lives in the grey areas” he said, shaking his salt and pepper head. Of course he’s right, and it was there; in coffee spilled beside the bed and trickled up the stairs. In all the sweat from running for the train: it needed bleaching out — that yellow, armpit stain. In…

A free-verse poem — Love’s things are not ordered from lifestyle catalogues, with glossy photos of sun-kissed models draped across designer furniture, pretending to read. Love’s things are picked up from the hardware store, in the wrong size, then taken back with crinkled receipts, rescued from dirty pockets, and replaced with what you meant…

A poem — Ever since, I’ve put crumb-covered knives back into tubs of spread, and left six half-read books down the side of my bed. (I know I’ll enjoy finding and re-reading them one day and there’s no room on the shelf anyway.) I drink gin out of coffee cups and cheap coffee…

A poem to start the day — I heard the rain had stopped and left my toast beside the bed. My feet took me outside; I ate the sun to break my fast, instead. Dawn’s vapour rose to bathe my legs as I waded through the wheat. I drank the dew and thought of you; reminded, that I need to eat. © Amy Knight 2020 Watch me perform this poem at the Buckingham Literary Festival (June 2022) More illustrated poems by this author-designer team:

A story poem — They hired me: to clean the house, pour tea and administer Chocolate Digestives as prescribed. Mostly, she just needed someone to talk to. “I’d like a bumblebee biscuit” she said, between pills. I’d already changed the blood-stained pillowcase and washed the windows clean of pigeons’ mess. But, I agreed. I’d…

A poem — The end begins: a storm, with noisy, hot tears tapping at the window, while a playful shadow waits to sneak inside. She crept out, quietly and flew — that girl who begged you; “make a wife of me” at 24. …

A poem — I took the class: choreographed, vinyasa inspired, followed her steps, in time summoned all the elegance my body can achieve. Forgot to breathe. Then as we lay “unwinding” at the end, something unrequited rubbed me, like a seam. And so I left, politely as they lay like corpses; took my…

A poem — Twilight falters. The calidity is disconcerting at this time of night. My burning feet slide uncertainly across a bridge, magnificently curved, so I can’t see the other side. The Tyne looks up and sends a lazy, laid-back ripple like a reassuring smile. She winds her way between the docks as humidity condenses, weaving…

A summer solstice poem — When the sun sinks, russet into thirsty land and the breeze turns, suddenly round the clock — the Earth says; “That’s it folks! See you in December!” — can I hold your hand? Can I wear your hoody? Can I rest my goosebump-covered calves on your thighs and bury my bare toes…