Author Archives: Liz McPherson

IMPOSTER SYNDROME. A sonnet. It greets you in the morning when you wake, at night it kills your hopes and mutilates ideas. You’re too afraid to make your mark so, sick at heart, you face the empty page, then turn … Continue reading →

Last night, in the morning, I gandered down the wooden stairs, ate jellied eels for breakfast with my pals, the grizzly bears. Just a normal day so far but, as we slurped our dishes, I heard a floosome noise outside … Continue reading →

Libby’s a teacher, Beta grows herbs, Liza’s a dreamer, while Elsa loves words, Elisa’s a neat freak, Belle is a slattern, Isabelle like chaos while Libby needs patterns, Ealasidde writes poems, recites them on walks, Beth’s passion is animals, she’d … Continue reading →

In this age of uncertainty a lie gains traction, travels around the world in a click. We must learn how to listen, recognise honesty, know truth when we hear it spoken, for who can tell where each false statement, each … Continue reading →

They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, schoolchildren once, now grey-haired, stiff and pompous, propriety made flesh, cod gasping on the deck, flapping but almost dead. The one who laughs a lot, the sporty one, the fool, the quiet thoughtful one, … Continue reading →