Katherine Crocker started writing poetry in 2002 and was soon published by poetry journals.


When not writing, she spends her time playing guitar, singing, gardening and loves to travel and take photographs.


Katherine lives and works in York.  





ISBN 978-1-907401-66-4


Indigo Dreams Publishing


Publication 30/04/ 2012






138 x 216mm


60 pages


£6.99 U.K





















Tel: 44 (0)845 458 9910


Email: [email protected]






UK  inc P&P






inc P&P



“Katherine Crocker is not afraid to engage the reader in an enterprise that is in the best sense dramatic, and she does not disappoint.


  These are strong and incisive poems which derive their emotional traction from well-registered visual and tactile experience.  


A wide-ranging, distinctive, and extremely good first collection.”    


Peter Bennet


Lovers, Belarus



It was an ordinary picnic,

red printed cloth,

wine flask and bread.


They sat where two rivers

met, flowed as one,

felt the breeze on their face.


On the opposite bank

painted houses, dirt track

to the orthodox church.


Before he caught his breath

her red dress blew

about her legs, lifted


her feet off the ground.

In one hand he held

the bird, in the other


her hand as she glided

up, over the town.

And if he wanted to keep her


swimming in air,

he had to hold his grip,

float with her.


Together over Vitebsk,

poultry yards, cow barns,

meadows, she held out her arm.


The fiddler playing a jig,

soldier with bread, stopped,

watched them fly


over raggy topped fences,

red and green houses.

They didn't speak of the child


but everyone could see

he held on, kept her close  

in the clouds over the town.




This is the boundary



This is the field where trees were felled,

heaped and loaded on carts, taken

to rot in the orchard, nurtured

in spring for the autumn fruit.  


This is the road where windfalls were swept,

heaped and loaded on carts, blown

with maggots, ruined and shovelled

to a mound of blight and mould.


This is the orchard, where apples were picked,

heaped and loaded on carts, taken

to store in turf-roofed sheds, locked

and left for a winter of hunger.


In this broken place, all that’s left to teach us,

barbed wire fences, rotten harvest breezes





Segou, November 2008

inspired by Amadou Kone's love poems


I watch women wash their clothes,

bathe in suds, gossip about their men

on the banks of the River Niger.  


At the jetty, the ferryboy rows, girls clamber

to the shore, balance zinc bowls of smoked fish

and a man carries his bicycle.


It's my last afternoon in Segou when Amadou

arrives, strong arms levering his wheelchair

up the dirt road to the Rablais hotel.


At the market you can buy clay pots,

chilli, shea butter, plastic buckets, soap

and crocodile claws.  Amadou sells poems.


I had malaria as a child then polio too,

he says.  I'm training to be an accountant.

My poems pay for school.


Boys, with their donkeys and carts, load

sorgum and millet. You can buy anything here,

he says.  I push his chair over ruts.


He takes me to the medicine man where

wishes are sold.  Tiny pins and parchment scraps,  

sewn and folded, to burn or keep.  


Amadou dreams of an office job, a wage.

He pulls his thin legs from the chair, rests his feet

in red street dust.  It's sunset.


We read poems to each other under dim

market lamps. Words, not translated, sing out,

music in different tongues.


Today is a great day, Amadou smiles.

Can any day really make such a difference?

I ask, buy a book of poems.


About us the market sellers stop and listen, light

their fires for the night, hold their hands

on hearts, shout Obama, Obama.











Long Exposure at Cordoba



You took a photo in the dusk,

midday pink at the mosque,

repeated shadows and arches

patterned like fugues.


You focussed the camera,

light reading at the centre,

perfect image to remember

the church within.


But when you get the print

the stone is blurred,

my ghost walks towards you

in orange blossom scent.





About Time



The clock strikes ten as she walks into the hall.

A perfume of rose petals disguises the stench

of dancers’ sweat and tallow candle grease.

Her dress, sewn by magicians, has spangles

of coloured glass and beneath silk underskirts

she’s hidden her favourite kitchen knife.


Wine in silver punch bowls, sweetmeats

and pastries heaped on malachite tables

and ivory counters.  The guests drink and eat

beyond reason as she calculates her chance,

she dances with counts, dukes and princes.

This is the last time she’ll wear glass slippers.


Eleven o’ clock, the musicians still play.

The violinist watches her – she returns his gaze,

steps behind stone pillars to consider:  maybe

in time she could elope with him, live in attic rooms

forever.  She catches his eye, walks to the garden

through yew trees in jasmine-scented breezes.


It’s after midnight when she runs home,

slips through the back door.  No candle smuts

or blood on her old clothes.  She mends the fire,

pours a bowl of soup and waits for her father

to return with terrible news:  his wife and

step-daughters have been brutally murdered.



She listens to the story about the violinist

caught red-handed, moon-mad from the deed

at the scene of the crime but insisted he’d not

done it.  He said he’d a witness but no-one

came forward.   She gave her father some soup,

cut the bread with her favourite kitchen knife.



9781907401664 Kathy 10SMALL