My soul has toothache


From biting down too hard on it, the fragrant peach
Split its stone, a pit of my unbelonging, pith of dreams
A transcendental fixation on finding the right fruit
Has brought me to a hard dry embankment
Dislocation is rainsoaked map of the present
The future, a mass of  wheeling birds
As if therapy were lying under a nimbus
With a dissociated angel overhead
Holding a carved fruit, waiting for the kiss
Can I wait for the extraction?

Art and poetry copyright Veronica  Aldous 2017 all rights reserved


The starlings in the fog

The starlings in the fog

Stop motion, every other wing beat
Is suspended in white aspic
A clattering without sound
A machine without cams
A blinking of  sticky eyelids
Enchanting the mind with tics
About miracles, about sanctuary
About safety,about saviours
I love you

To the end of the reel.


Veronica Aldous 2017 all rights reserved

The NotSo Stranger


The NotSo Stranger

I am tasting you from afar
Touching your worn coatsleeves
Thrusting my ghosthands in your pockets
This is a healing with cold dark apples
Rolling from the thorny branches
Pitting the snow with blue shadows
The bed sheets are ice and the town is silent

I saw you once- an ink stain on white paper
Spreading delicious furry strands
I gasp at the memory

No matter how long you take
You are coming some day
Making me laugh in my sleep
You don’t need to be anything better
I  will understand the blackbirds
Of your kisses, when you alight
From the train…


Veronica Aldous 2017 All rights reserved





The sun was sulking by the roadside, its tattered sleeves trailing on the road. I rode through its fingers and I saw a yesterday-moon. So that was why the sun was sulking! Moon was quite violent in her stark holy shroud of fading paduasoy and the sun was competing and flaring, blinding me so that I was in danger.
Beautiful angry ladies take heed of the fir trees.They are blacker than footfall, more seductive than your own creamy flesh.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2017

People who live precariously are kings

Lean from cafes, mobile in one hand
Anchoring the space to some island
In their heads where there is chance
Lush encounters with Paraguayan dancers
Dreamscapes of foreign travel
An idea coalescing , germ of stories
Snippings of conversations, clinking
Coffee cups, glittering impenetrable lives
To take home and whisper into the corners
Of an empty room at midnight.

I am there with them. I watch them watching
Impotent as Canute before a sea
Of semiotics and a thesaurus of possibilities
I am waiting for something

A word
It will come.



Copyright Veronica Aldous 2016

Huntsman at Noon


I cannot see them but think of their soft
Dark breasts, the quickening heart
Shaking the  shining plumage
With its  shimmering vanes
And pinions, the mad clock
Of being a being-

The Ptarmigan’s tongue.
The Arctic Tern’s angelic glide.
The boom of the Bittern
On the midnight reservoir

All of these gain entry
Sputtering mortality
Cordite has no odor
Nor  does this memory
Can I kill by naming a thing?

Go fetch.


Veronica Aldous 2016 all rights reserved