Thank you to Christine, who has written an exquisite review of the novel here. Thank you to those who’ve commented over the months, especially Jorgelina and Elliott. And thank you for reading, and for making me a writer.
A little list of things I’m feeling grateful for right now: a secret person who knows who they are. Today’s lunch invite. Lilies. Fatty snoring at the bottom of the bed and Silver on the window-sill. The earl grey by my side. The chaffinch singing outside. Lauren Lavern and Radio 6. Banoffee pie (!) All the people I love. You. Add your list to the comments – I want to know.
This poem feels like the right poem today – for Ruth and for anyone else who is living through difficult times. There is always hope, even in the darkest of the dark. We cannot be predicted.
Suppose I took out a slender ketch from
under the spokes of Palace pier tonight to
catch a sea going fish for you
or dressed in antique goggles and wings and
flew down through sycamore leaves into the park
or luminescent through some planetary strike
put one delicate flamingo leg over the sill of your lab
Could I surprise you? Or would you insist on
keeping a pattern to link every transfiguration?
Listen, I shall have to whisper it
into your heart directly: we are all
supernatural every day
we rise new creatures cannot be predicted