Glenis has been writing poetry since the beginning of the first Covid lockdown rather than take up baking. She does most of her writing at night as she suffers from severe insomnia. When she is not writing poetry she makes beaded jewellery, reads, cycles and sometimes runs 10K races slowly.  She lives near Cambridge, Uk in the flat lands of the Fens with three cats and her long-suffering partner.

Chocolate biscuits

Disabled by arthritis, grandmother
slept downstairs in what had been the front room.
She spent her days in a tall padded chair
picking horse racing winners and chatting
with whoever visited while Aunt Glad 
and Mum cleaned the house and cooked casseroles
that always seemed to smell of cabbage.
We would argue over different horses
and I would tell her about my school days,
all the time scoffing chocolate biscuits
that I would smuggle in against Mum's
advice – a special treat for us both.

She died in a care home giving Aunt Glad
some time off while I was away from home.
I missed the horse racing but did not feel
a loss after she had gone. Instead it seemed
she had been released from that little room 
and could do all of the things she used to
do before everything shrunk and she had to wait
for us to visit rather than live out
in the world like the rest of us. She could
go to race courses, walk on beaches and
even dance but best of all she could have
chocolate biscuits whenever she wanted.

Now you see it

Sleep is the illusion that's 
supposed to end the show,
when exhaustion's sawn your day 
in half the big reveal should go
as smooth as dress rehearsals, 
like napping by the fire,
as all the doves have been produced
you've shown that there's no wire.
The zig-zag girl's in dreamland,
the swords no longer fight,
your mind is still so active
with card tricks for the night.
Though rabbit's back inside the hat,
he's snoring like the rest,
insomnia still wants to see
a bullet catch at best.
But you've set out to trap her
before night's equinox
as you can sleep when she's locked in
your disappearing box.