Having a child takes you back to all those parts of your own childhood that you had hidden away.
Like the sand and the oyster, it's a creative irritant. In each poem, I'm trying to reveal a truth, so it can't have a fictional beginning.
I still read Donne, particularly his love poems
Time hates love, wants love poor,/but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.
What will you do now with the gift of your left life?
Christmas is taken very seriously in this household. I believe in Father Christmas and there's no way I'd do anything to undermine that belief.