Chris Rice

      The Circles on Your Ceiling You wake up (so you tell me) to the lurid gold of summer splashed like paint across your tea-brown walls; curlicues across your bed- room ceiling: complex, inter- locking circles (‘rings left by Goliath’s teacups upside...

Karin Molde

      Fortuna rolls the dice in Tumahole Free State, South Africa I have never seen a baby so tiny outside a womb. You hold her jigsaw of bones in a blanket, afraid to scatter the pieces in case they’d sail like seeds onto the road. A dung beetle rolls...

Siobhan Ward

      The Longhouse The Renault rocks left to right, waddles up an unmade road, squeezes through the trees. Now I see it – a low-slung, stocky, lengthy, extended longère and, at right angles, ancient barns remodelled with stone, glass, wood. My...

Robin Houghton

      I’m looking through a lattice of magnolia  not yet ready to blow open its thousand furring buds— every year the same urgency—same innocence— on an anniversary serious enough for champagne and a room with mullioned windows—the view outside is...