Peter Bickerton

      The lesser black-backed gull The gull on the meadow taps her little yellow feet like a shovel-snouted lizard dancing on a floor of lava, a unicyclist balancing on the spot fixated on her singular task. No herring here in the meadow though the sea...

Lydia Harris

      the word of the Lord ask this place ask the silver day the steady horizon the self-heal the buttercup the hard fern in the ditch ask the bee and the tormentil this rock smooth as an elephant’s back as you sit and watch the breeze stir the surface...

Seán Street

      Unlocked Dogs in spring park light pulled by intent wet noses through luminous grass haven’t read the news didn’t switch the TV on follow only their noses so what do they know     Seán Street’s most recent collection is Running Out of...
Moira McPartlin

Moira McPartlin

  Magnificence For Spike Walker, Photomicrographer What jewelled gifts are these, spliced and stacked on platters of smeared glass? A universe of micro. You breathed life to mitre continents, raised spikebergs of vitamin C. Sulphur produced Marvel-ready planets...

Becky Cherriman

      ‘He opens his throat for the crow’ (Matthew Hedley Stoppard) Down the chimney at dawn – crow caw. Wings of night retract. What does it wake me to as sky is hearthed by morning and my home warms slow? Its meaning in my gullet, I learn the way of...

Mark Carson

      Last thing he does he dithers round the kitchen, lifts his 12-string from her hook, strikes a ringing rasgueado, the echo bouncing back emphatic from the slate flags and off the marble table. He opens up the draught and gives the creaking stove a...