The Writers' Hub has become MIROnline. The site remains for archival purposes but will no longer be updated. Head over to our new website to see weekly short stories, poems and creative non-fiction from Birkbeck and beyond.
writers' hub
Rosie Allabarton
Rosie Allabarton

Rosie Allabarton is an English short story writer and poet who lives in Berlin. A postgraduate of the Birkbeck Creative Writing MA, her work has been published in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies. When she's not writing Rosie likes to run along the towpaths of the Landwehrkanal and swim in the lakes that surround the city, rain or shine.

Member Link.
Rosie Allabarton Poetry



My hair was a crown and

I was a horse

as you walked past the house

and I galloped across the road.

Hooves against glass

I peered through the café window, only

to see us eating eggs

in the dark;

our smiles glowing over coffee,

butter that I thought was cheese and

across the years

that have passed.

It was silent inside and

I snorted. The chairs were stacked high

on the tables that were islands

and menus fluttered like leaves

to the freshly washed floor.




I am not a runner


but as I lie on my side

waiting for sleep to come

because nothing else has

for the longest of times

it's like I've been running

I am on the run

and I've been caught mid-stride, mid-leap

one foot tucked under a thigh, arms

outstretched, expectant, in welcome

or for balance

and I try for the longest of times

to remember what it's like

to lie side-by-dangerous-side

and stop all this running.






There have only been waking states;

holding the morning back with my hands

holding the curtains closed

against thick light

that becomes so easily thin

and frayed at the edges.

It slips through my fingers,

clings to the particles of dust

that lurch through the air;

a crowd

grounded, small patches of joyful filth

making a home on my clothes and skin.

His top lip curls when he says my name and

standing too close he asks a question

he doesn't want an answer to,

the sound of his own voice pearls

in his cloth-ears

sodden with vowels.

The king of that unwanted morning

asks how I am and laughs

when I answer, laughs

before I've even answered

and under the covers

dust under dust

I kill him nightly in my dreams.



No related pieces


Neil Fulwood Poetry
Neil Fulwood

Liane Strauss Poetry
Liane Strauss

Rosalind Hudis Poetry
Rosalind Hudis