Jenny Robb

      Patricia Marlowe after Nancy Jane by Charles Simic Step-father choking on his sandwich as she died. Hope, the optimist, flying away. Like spectators at a private drama we were, children peering into a fishbowl. In walked a nurse with a trolley. (How...

Katy Evans-Bush

      The Snow There’s no need to talk about oneself. What’s real is real all over: a sediment of cold — pure cold — is salutary to the warmth, which thought it had the say. You little enzyme-hungry bits and pieces, life-shoots & insects, winding...

Rachel J Fenton

      You Are Now Entering Antarctica   When the glacier breaks, we’re sitting down to eat dinner. A large piece of ice beginning the slow move South puts me on edge, evolutionarily speaking. My skin, already white, feels like it’s shimmering like the...

Gill Horitz

      Being a Mother I look back and ask, how did we get by? Was there too much angling after exactness? Did I promise you something and fail? Unfathomable, the way things become, like winter, a stretch of bare garden. Gone the violets, the brittle...

Susan Taylor

    The Trickster Talks of her Tears I wake and, for no reason other than life itself, my face feels like it’s made of tears, and they creep along the insides of my eyelids, like rain shifts across a windscreen at speed, but somehow they’re only ghosts of...

Richard Newham-Sullivan

      The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place Be secretive – don’t make confidences, at most drop hints. Be small bright flowers – peripheral, almost overlooked. Have aliases, a sudden sweet smell at sunrise, a choir in the distance from...