Please see our website for details of the helpline – by Hannah Stone


For Jenny Hill

She saw dust rising from rubble,
Tears streaking down cheeks.
She smelled escaped gas,
The ruptured sewer.
She heard screams, sirens,
Heavy lifting equipment.
She adjusted the earpiece
So the signal was optimal.

She spoke of the international response,
Of a wall that had fallen,
Exposing a dining room expecting
A family gathering, not this.
She spoke of the fine glass vase
That trembled, unshattered,
On the table.

She went home.
The door had all its hinges in place.
She poured hot water
Onto coffee grounds.
She observed that as she pushed the plunger
Her hand started to shake,
And her ribcage writhed,
And her throat spasmed with dry sobs.
She noticed her cheeks were wet
And later she sat very still.





Hannah is a writer, forager and hill-walker who lives in Leeds. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Leeds Trinity University. Her first solo collection Lodestone was published by York-based Stairwell Books in 2016. She finds poems in landscapes, people-watching, galleries and libraries as well as the usual love and death stuff. 

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