We’re excited to announce that The White Review Poet’s Prize 2022 is now open for entries. The Poet’s Prize is run in partnership with CHEERIO, and is for...
For my partner’s first visit to his village, my father brings us to the highest peak of the Pyrenees....
Outside, the rain seems
always on the brink Like
most people that morning
I was avoiding my father’s
funeral I must’ve stood
at the door with my coat on
for hours, always turning
back as though putting off
seeing a film It was the sort of day
for wearing an old shirt
into town to buy a new shirt
The rain began The wind
agitated the lake The sort
of lake you can’t when
giving directions from the road
miss The sort of road
people call ‘the high road’
leading down to the lake
people call ‘the old lake’
from which the wind brings
news of the drowned boy
