Born in Spain, Cristina published two collections and five anthologies in Spanish before moving to Swindon, where she is involved in education, community radio, flamenco singing and raising her children.

Her English poems have been shortlisted and reached finals at Bridport, Gregory O'Donoghue, Strokestown and Aesthetica, while other have been included in Red Ink, published in 2008.

In September 2009, she approached Matt Holland, director of the prestigious Swindon Festival of Literarture, with the idea of running a poetry competition for local people which would give winners the opportunity to read their poems at the festival.

Aided by fellow poets Hilda Sheehan and Martin Malone, the project became known as The Battered Moons Poetry Competition.

After a highly successful competition, there was an added bonus for the seven winners; they shared the stage with Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy - fittingly in the Great Western Hall at STEAM, where the Alfred Williams Heritage Society will hold its festival in Novmeber.

An example of Cristina's poetry:

September, Ravensroot

Like a kissing gate I close to open.
You go through many times, in all seasons.
Your hips brush the rosehips,
you are offered the oval red.
You need to keep watching out for the mud,
with the noise of your offspring at your heels.
Nettles favour the sides of the paths
and ply their self-defence to someoneÕs agony
because our children turn deaf ears
to our warnings. The few berries youÕll find
have mistaken the months
and dried before ever turning sweet.
This was a garden made for you
which tends itself without your knowing:
growing the stems, shedding the seeds,
burying the failed under the forest debris.
The wood sustains the wreck, the wear and tear
of passage, and the depressed fractures
collect the collapsed clouds
in slurred puddles: mongrels of rain and dust.
The blackbird has been peddling Persian flutes,
though local robins do not bother with metaphors,
they deliver what theyÕve been given,
and the rest of the birds know better
than allowing themselves to be caught
in the helter-skelter of our movement.
We get faint, thirsty and hungry,
but what there is to eat we dare not touch:
In the shade I stoop to the fragrant mushrooms,
I kneel to consider their symphony
of tidy, devoted gills, the loyal stem,
the delicate skin of the pious dome-cap,
but in my ignorance canÕt tell food from poison,
and youÕve walked on with the children.
Following the circular route
has taken you back to the beginning.
This one is the folding in of a strange summer.