Phil Wood

    Cardigan Bay As a boy I wondered about the jigsaw strewn across the sand. The parts are taken by the waves, dad said. Salted and cleaned. I pictured the crab – pink, hard and quick to anger, attacking with a snapping claw. This flat, wet beach was...

Susie Wild

      In case of fire exit building before tweeting about it. Do not stay statue-still with conducting hands those fidget thumbs whilst up the stairs the accounts team are inhaling smoke for the first (and last) time. Please scroll down the stairwell...

Carrie Etter

    The Find At the garage sale I smiled when I saw Emily Dickinson’s selected poems. Didn’t I have this edition at home? Inside it read: To Marie. Friends forever. Love, Alice. I was Alice—that was my handwriting. Was the woman in the lawn chair, watching...

Helen Calcutt

    Bird Lamp in paperfields and in the sky, a compression of long halls. Do you know how sudden you are how sad? Sadness being air or soft fly of a thing over dark houses. The sad dying voice of the bird is my dying voice We are the poem – Look our heads,...

Marc Woodward

  Marc Woodward is a musician and poet based in the West Country. His work, which often draws on music and rural life and is frequently underpinned by dark humour has been published in various magazines and anthologies. Maquette Press published his chapbook...

Ruth Stacey

  Mental Health Animals Between us your depression and my anxiety; such slippery things to articulate – yet I try. You, a creature sat curled into himself, naked, muscled, not a weak man but a hare-man. Arms folded, long ears and face drooped: blocking out...