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Carrie Sanders


The Walking Dead.

The frogs are still in our pond.

I mean they are still

In our pond.


Under the green-sludge surface.

They breathe cold and slow

Don’t surface.


Knowing to move is to die.

On the day that is.

Some must die.


It’s like when we hold our breath.

So that we aren’t seen.

Bursting breath.


It was games of hide and seek.

I learnt to be quiet.

Not to seek.


It comes in useful sometimes.

When you are angry.

Still sometimes.


I am skilled at noticing.

Without being seen.



In the dusk gloom of moon light,

Our frogs hop free and

air feels light.


So heavy to hide away.

Invisible wants

put away.


As a child I learnt this game.

Watch and be still. I

learned this game.


I have collected shells and teeth

in chewing gummed pockets

and in the lines of a seam.

They are friction in my grief.


I display them on a shelf

in a bottle of cobalt blue

and in my old tobacco pots.

I am proud of my wealth.


I never did like sewing up holes

but I keep a wicca basket

and my body bleeds.

I was stitched in timely patrols. 


I iron where the socks are spread

but I melted the rag-rugs

and glued your names inside.

You won’t get lost now. Or dead.


I have skin that’s been burnt

in the silent oven fire

and in the steam-soak of a kettle.

They were hard lessons learnt.


I once wove dollies of golden corn

in a cold grey school room

and you two breathing inside me.

It was the day you were born.

‘Time Flies Over Us But Leaves Its Shadow Behind’.

(Collected poems 2022-2024) 

'Teaching The Death In Me How To Live.' 

(Collected poems and stories 2019-2021)


About Carrie Sanders

I write poetry and prose with political and philosophical themes. 

I have been a philosophy and politics lecturer, and have worked in areas of mental health and attachment. 

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