Miranda Yates

      Damp The damp that squats in gritstone hearts of two-bed terraces. The stumble of rooftops polished dark as funeral brogues. The promiscuity of green, having its way with every crack and hole, every startled moss that punks from rock and stump....

Ian Heffernan

      Two Attempts at a Theory of History All I want to say Is that perhaps history Means the striking of a match In a doorway to protect the flame From half-hearted sleet or mizzling rain. Or, seen another way, What history represents Is a choir of the...

Roz Goddard

      Goldfish on the Coast How close we came to leaving each other on the hard shoulder, walking in different directions, following the line of fields for lonely miles then hitching a lift – me toward the sea, you with a spirit level back to the...

Moray Sanders

      In my father’s pocket Feel that square of paper in your jacket pocket next to your heart. Unfold it. Hold it out if you need to. “This is my father. He is loved, not lost. Please bring him home and when you have read this, put the paper back in...