Ian Seed

      Cottage I turn around to see my mother on the roof, clinging to a chimney. How did she get there? She’s shouting down instructions: which apples to pick from the orchard behind me. And then, as if waking from a dream, she looks around in...

Ava Patel

  Six Feather gashes cut the deepest because I can’t figure out their motives; this game of Russian roulette we play will kill me because you always load six cartridges. I think there is a wolf cub lost in this city, lost from his pack. My wrappers fall from my...

Maggie Mackay

      Lady Mary Hamilton If you were to be wandering through the Kunstkamera in St Petersburg, last century, you’d likely have spotted a glass jar on a dusty shelf and inside it a head, pickle-floating in spirits. This belonged to Mary Hamilton. It was...

Ian Heffernan

      The Journey in   We pass a shock of roofs, a builders’ yard, A squat clocktower, cranes, wide bird-filled parks, Unkempt back lawns and windows seen through trees. Graffiti flares from walls of darkened brick And at unmeasured intervals we...