Photos by Rhys Thwaites-Jones and Hannah Engelkamp Six months ago, in bleakest midwinter, I wrote this essay. My two-year-old was communicating mostly in animal noises and gestures – brilliant, hyper-intelligent animal noises and gestures, of course, but still. I was finding mothering hard, and aspiring but failing to find a place for myself in his […]
To access this content, you must be a subscriber to New Welsh Review.
Subscribe today
Existing subscribers,
log in to view this content.
We passed that road at the beginning of The grey season when the trees are dusted with moths And the mothers bend upward and burst into grief… Ruth …
Read more
Mother Departs is a collection of poems, diary entries, photographs and prose fragments loosely organised by Tadeusz Różewicz around the life of his m …
Read more
SEARCH