Ashley Dunn

      Gone Fishing I bounced past the other boy in the bedsit balancing on the balcony. I’d just woken up. He’d been pulling fishing line out of his mouth for sixty-three days now and the floats had just stopped. ‘Not sure how much more I’ve got!’ and...

Neil Fulwood

      A Croc in the Field for Harry Paterson Today’s operative on the ohrwurm shift has hacked the WiFi password in the ear canal and now I’m looping back endlessly to a misheard lyric: “you picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille, with four hundred...

Ira Lightman

      Poet Dead [after Rilke] Laid down, his upraised face is White – offputting – on a plumped pillow. How life takes the He-Who-Knows And His senses and disallows, Absorbs to the year’s disimpetuousness. Saw Him alive did the comparative dunce:...

Dave Wynne-Jones

      Pieces “The all-consuming passion is rarely found more than a recipe for misery,” you read and told me you would see about that and joked “Can two people be engaged who are already married?” But it seems I was right after all. I remember the Dali...

Pat Edwards

      Watching the woodpecker at 5.30 am He appears like a paper bag blown onto the feeder, punching his beak time and again into the peanuts. The minute he sees me he’s off in bouncing flight. Today, it’s early, and I’m sipping tea in the kitchen. He...