Issue 9

Autumn 2013



The Corn Laws, never needed now,
recall the rub of scuffling elbows.
Rust-red carpets laid out on the lawn
were musty from the cycle shed.
Then Glaciation, with the scent
of orange blossom, raspberries,
of dew-damp earth, of apple shade
and Cox’s Orange Pippin.
Finally, the rhythmic roll of syllables,
the tongue and ear of Bovary,
of Molière, whose yellow pensées
laughed beside the lemonade.
Revision wasn’t wasted then;
suffused with hormones, seventeen.


Kathy Gee