Bojana Stojcic

      In My Dream You are Not Cold I’m not shrouded in a blanket of smog as the first of the winter’s heavy pollution hits the city schools don’t shut and there are no warnings for pregnant women (in my dream, there aren’t refineries and power plants to...

Marc Janssen

      Postcard from the Spring The place I write from Is small and quiet Minor key. It is a world of infinite beauty Copious possibility Mute exuberance. It is not me, but part of me, The words appear unhappy Crying for joy. I want to illustrate a world...

Edmund Prestwich

      Winter Weathers Rain, persistent rain, and the last leaves falling. Voices twittered feebly. What anxious shadows blue tits seemed then, fluttering through the bare trees’ foodbanks of branches. How I wished a luminous green bee-eater,...

Isabelle Thompson

      The Romance Languages My mother is learning French in stumbling little phrases. Bonjour, Julien. Bonsoir. Who is Julien? Merci, Julien. Salut, Julien. Bonne nuit. I imagine a man dressed all in blue, drinking a glass of Badoit. ~Bonjour~, Julien,...

Ken Evans

      The Passenger Via        hand to hand and hand to mouth, they pass a line invisible. Via        blast of air, puff of smoke, handshake, warm embrace, the tourist shares a secret, without telling us. Via        soft-soled tread in airport lounge,...

Isabelle Kenyon

      Yeah that place is a dump Tastes like poverty: wide roads, no one with fuel to ride them. Casinos and bingo- coins like wishbones, dream of swimming in them. Even here, shiny leaflets and theatre lights, the floor cries dust balls, DIY people for...