Steph Ellen Feeney

      Ode to Remission My mother is here, and might not have been, so I hold things tighter: the small-getting-smaller of her running with my daughter down the beach, every conch and whelk they gather, the scar tissue just peeking out of her swimsuit,...

Anna Fernandes

      Glove My stubby maroon glove spent a chill night on the velvet ridge of Clent Hills tangled in summer-dried grasses and snapped seed heads, pecked at sniffed at and tumbled among crusty rabbit droppings. Cuff sheltering tucked-in snails and slugs,...

Jo Eades

      Bin Day It’s Wednesday and / again / I’m laying pages of newspaper on the kitchen table / tipping up the food waste bin / scattering teabags and potato peelings and orange pith in a pile / and wrapping it up like chips from the chippy / so the...

Sue Butler

      Pilates Zoom We cultivate the knack of getting down on the floor and back up three or four times each day. The constellation of cables, chips and thin air through which our leader observes us is mysterious as prayer, more predictable, precise....

JLM Morton

      Charm for a walk     In a dull sky the guttering flame of a white heron, drawn down to the bourne. Then a field of black dock fluttering and rising like a bedsheet of crows. The webbed slush that vanishes to the touch. Did you pay for...

Tonnie Richmond

      Secrets     We could tell there was something we weren’t allowed to know. Something kept hidden from us children, something not quite right with Mr Jones. We wondered why his wife had rabbit-in-the-headlight eyes. When blue lights came...