The Little Ghost of Whichways

blue fox.jpg

The Little Foxgirl of Whichways

Being ‘here’ is very mystifying and sometimes little spirits whisper me stories of their tiny, unimportant, shimmering and brief lives…

When I was young and my shoon wore down
from traipsing up and down the shackled path
I had songs stuck in me head, tacked up
each step was a word, a stitch, a mark
I didna know that I was strange, I didna know
what people did, or why, or where they went
the cold sky was blue and twigs bore green
the blackbird sang in silvery coils
and the snow made flowers of my breath

mither moth bore me away in Spring
and now I lie amidst the drying grass
am stoaten bones, am husks.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2019

Collage and painting- Veronica, The Quick Blue Fox in the Graveyard


Little kings


Little kings

With stalked goggle eyes
They survey the terrain
A rich dessert of sweet veins
Each cries
I am me!
I want you to do what I say

Finding no solace in sunlight
Or rain, or shining dew
Greedy as acid

As soon as they chomp Lettuceland
They want another

They batten on the earth
In sticky digestive marmalade
As she boils in her core.

Wollstone Craft


Veronica’s poetry collections are all available on Amazon

Wollstone Craft

In the gloom,  furbelows puff stiffer than a peacock tail
My eyes take on a stoic gleam as the mirror sheens and shimmies
Up the brazen fireplace to the lambrequin enfolded windows…
I am stuffed as much as the pine martin in the bell jar
The doodads on the pianoforte flick their musty passementerie
Emboldened by the aspic air, the isinglass of eggs
I am button backed this evening, when I think of you
Fished up on an enchanted shore
Where mildew can never creep along your edges
Nor book mites eat your face
St John Ersthwhile Hughes-Fortinbrass
A lover invented in so much haste
Is just as good as books
and so
I gaze out upon the paralysed Park
A hyena in a petticoat, imbibing belladonna
And laudanum, sublingually, my dear.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved


Veronica’s poetry collections are all available on Amazon



In a huddled corner I long for cuckoo pint, marjoram
Lush swathes of grass to brush and burr my fur
I am not a lush kitten, but an old mistress
Once called Pip, called RonkaConka
Now nameless prisoner of aching bones.

None comes to rescue one-eye, having served
My useful days on laps, my paps hung with tinies
Little tumblers long gone, no longer mother but ratter
Perhaps? I offer that.

I am forest, I declare I know how to dig a beetle
Pull the skin off a mouse so it looks like liver
I once caught a bat; its shrieks unnerved
The cold teeth of night, the neighbour’s dog
Bayed for blood, I charmed him through a gate
Dragging kills past his jaws
My eyes a gorgeous weaponry of hate.

I am wormy and I dribble
but I am still half-lovely
I want to stretch upon a hot doorstep
Eat cold tinned lungs, exude the smell
Of stinky worn out shoes, beloved
For what I am,
always yours
A whiskered nemesis, fallen star and ever, poet.


veronica aldous all rights reserved 2018

Picture shows my art and my  poetry books  now available on Lulu. Be lovely if you bought one! Click below.






I thought about boiling some glue
Making flypapers in the gloom
Hanging them up and catching
Hardhearts and worrypests
Finaglers and wicked hurters

But I have caught glow worms and stars
And my mother’s beautiful voice
Singing to me, to calm me
As I weep on the stairs

I am still attached
By the caul
By the mind
By the heart.


Veronica Aldous  2018  all rights reserved

Painting by Veronica- Buddha meets my Bones




In the fields is the shim sham man
Now we are in the bales
I got the holy screeches

The sun did pop down
And I snugged away in a burrow
Smelling of sweet hay

Here I is, not altogether
Together. I can eye a slit
Here he comes pobbling over

To see the kid maybe trapped
If I was cowboygirl
Shoot him dead

I scry him all my life
He is the loutish joddy
Under the bed.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018

Alice and Pi

wave paiting

Alice and Pi

Pleasure is not formatted
It is clouds inside a builder’s van
Not inside but magically inserted
Via the ordinary glass

Holst plays a  symphonic broadcast
To Venus, he is gone now
But he can still compose
Listen, he says –
Everything has a voice

I transmit acres of nebulae
Chesil beach is the wet sea
In my blood, tidally grading the stones
Smaller to large, as always

I am worn away, but saturated
As the horse drinking
From the deep sweet stream
All of it changes, is unchanging

Stranger, what are you?
I feel you streamed
Into me; you answer my questions

That is truly astonishing
Look into me again

I transform under your gaze.


Veronica Aldous 2018 all rights reserved

Painting by Veronica Aldous- copyright