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Marie Little

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the poet

Living near fields and dreaming of the sea, Marie Little has published poetry and flash fiction with Acumen, Ink Sweat & Tears, Black Bough Poetry, Retreat West and many others. She enjoys unpretentious poems, twisty flash and the challenge of a writing prompt. Marie is co-creator of The Swadlincote Festival of Words, and runs writing groups for adults and children. She's best known for her children’s poetry as Attie Lime, and her debut children’s collection is Blue Jelly and Strawberries.

the poems

In the Sunday Garden
Club Hut with Dad

00:00 / 00:44
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                               Underarmed up onto

                               the bench beside you

                               pondering your

                               bad back, too much

                               flesh above my knees

                               I absorb the morning like

                               a dry seed. 

                               You chat easy with customers

                               most already friends

                               hand them smiles in

                               paper bags

                               forget the price of things.

                               I play shop with the black iron

                               weighing scales, palming the

                               cold weights, testing the brass

                               bowls for honesty.

                               You hand me boiled sweets,

                               tidy jars, curl twine,

                               lift the stink on the fish, blood and bone bin

                               to make us squirm, laughing. 

                               I measure myself carefully

                               in scoops.

Dusk

00:00 / 00:42
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                        Six o'clock draws its curtains,

                        twists the dial on chemicals keeping me

                        sunny. The mood over the field is indigo

                        blue, heavy with sooty clouds in waiting. I

                        have no need of litmus paper. I know my score.

                        Bottles in rows wink at me, each emptied to a 

                        different level, each a slightly different chime in

                        the tune of dusk. I shun them all, flick

                        the kettle on. Slide something herby, caffeine-free

                        from a purple box, steep it so long it might

                        understand. Drink it in sips, watch the soot spread.

                        Later the bottles will sing.

Parents, 1982

00:00 / 00:26
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                                   She is milk of magnesia,

                                   camphorated oil

                                   (warm to the touch).

                                   She is petroleum jelly,

                                   sodium bicarbonate,

                                   cream of tartar.


                                   He is the berry-stained wooden spoon

                                   as long as my arm, the 

                                   sticky muslin, dripping.

                                   He is the jam-saucer, nestled 

                                   in the ice box.

                                   He is pectin, 

                                   like quiet magic.

Publishing credits

In the Sunday Garden Club Hut with Dad:

  Ink, Sweat & Tears (March 2022)

Dusk: Acumen (No. 103)

Parents, 1982: Molecules Unlimited Anthology

© original authors 2025

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