Helen Finney

      The Perseids at Bannau Brycheiniog At my feet the window sprawls a view of kneaded land, craggy baked by the hand of the gods, dusted green with short bit grass. A sheep walks by along the grey faded road, pitted with age, worn tired with wear....

Eugene O’Hare

      In Memory of Anne It hasn’t been this bright all year – the moon’s white scalp, spot-lit, a head turned away from a thing the rest of us fear: unearthly dark and its stars – the small unfindable glass in a vast unwalkable carpet. Night is where...

Juliet Humphreys

      Still Life Though I am not a painter this is to be a portrait of my parents and my sister. You don’t have a sister. This is my mother speaking, someone I did once have. I picture my sister in the middle, Dad shuffling along to make her some space....

Julian Dobson

      The small press publisher You too I guess have studied the surviving starlings as they swoop and whistle by the snack trailer at Moorfoot glinting for crumbs of flaky pastry like a glimpsed field of dandelions and everything turns holy – you...

Mark Czanik

      Scavengers I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers, and the sacrifices they made following their hearts. Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars. A forgotten Fitzgerald writing How are you? postcards to himself in the...

Nigel King

      Aquamarine My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been no place as still as this. As white....