Now that rain reflected lights refract the decorated streets,

with fractured ribbons, shivering through the darkening days,

obscure, tangential, liminal,

this ancient season sinks down into Earth;

its signs:

a sharpened flint,

burnt grain,

an amber bead.

Concealed by hide of beast and pelt of fox,

fur dew- beaded, falcon – watched,

its pact with time is held through fire and frost.

The heron flying east and west does not betray

the small and lonely corners of the field and wood and fen

wherein it lays;

waiting for the turning of the earth,

the turning of the year,

the second’s icy turning.


Water freezes in the well’s dark depths

and far away a Lullay whimpers in the briars, then is gone,

and standing at the high end of the darkened Hall

we see this season in its truth.

It wears a crown of bone and shale.

Chris Michaelides was born in a village that gradually became an outer London suburb. She now lives in as small  and remote a village in East Anglia as is compatible with the daily journey to work. Music and time to look around are precious.






here I am


in a quiet room

writing these words

in a diary I never keep

here alone in December

writing in May



time is not a relevant factor

the when of these words

can be forgotten

but somewhere

there’s you

not here

somewhere else

so place can be factored out as well

it seems

the only significant things

are this ink

on this paper

and your eyes

on these words

your head

my pen

your thoughts

our words




Reuben Woolley: born Chesterfield, 1952, now living in Spain, started writing poetry in 1968 – 6 poems published in Numbers 2 – 6 of Candelabrum Magazine, Volume1 1971/72. For reasons he is ashamed to confess, stopped writing in 1980s. Now writing again and determined to continue.