Hello

      The Curse   I bless you love, like the bee is blessed in honey, though, in the hive, the beekeeper has seen the bees drowning in honey. Is this a blessing, a dying from cloy and sugar, surely, slowly? Or, is it this, this, as you will see, the...

      In Rut Eaten alive, being me I step into the street Where November leaves are falling. The air is fine, the clear sky As finely brittle; the aroma of late decay A delicate call to loving. Shed of worries I tread the cobblestones with antlers...

      The Cyclist’s Breed of Freedom Cycling the five miles to work under the blue sky of something like summer, I see hundreds of cars going past me in a blur of metal and memory. The garden greens and reds of the traffic lights hush me over and under...

      Everything You Need to Know about Australian Magpie Swooping Season Protecting your baby is natural – and it’s the same for magpies. The black and white swoop loosens her grip. Here’s how to avoid their protective swoop. She drops her baby....

      Damp after Christmas    and us on the bench with a downhill view of the back of our house, the running curve of the street, us with a view of windows, the windows we stand behind, tracking the passage of prams, of people with tools for allotments,...

      Rooms Inside the sweet and charmless one, the filthy one, the room with flies or night wasps singing far too high. Shutterless and bleached and all-too-ready-rooms, the gassy room, fitted out with pique and sorrow, the one cascading with cries and...

      Happening Locally Because the park has hidden the place, the parents of fashionable dogs won’t know. Because the grass has covered up the mud where the knees slid, the couple holding hands won’t know. Because the sirens are quiet, the officers...

      Cep Some years I miss the days of its fruiting or else it doesn’t show: a sign of what’s going on underground how hylae and mycelia are faring. Beneath pines at the woodland edge where a little light comes in its soft egg protrudes meaty and...

      Subtraction of Grief Yesterday I slipped into a broken space the wind couldn’t mend. Beside me the reservoir dazzled in the cold sunshine and larch trees losing their copper needles in the fleecing gusts were still, are always, all one in...

      A Pale Fire of Roses It's a child's game: knock on the door and run away. Each time she looked out, she couldn't see who'd knocked. Reporting it felt foolish: it's only a knock on the door. Fourth time and there's a bunch of flowers on the window...

      True Lies My bro’s so good at dying, he shakes this way and that, dancing in the shrapnel. Mama shouts play nice so we bundle into the sofa bed, bodies clumsily naive. Arnie’s on the telly, a CIA agent, a body of nothing but muscle and man,...

      How Inferiority Complex Talks to A Writer Whose Mother Tongue is Urdu I wake up at 7 am, sleep again for two hours, get up at 9 am to finally work, open my laptop, remind myself, no big deal, it's a day, after all, it will pass. Boss sends a...

      The inventor’s wife predicts a storm Each coming storm, I’m alone, love. I take to bed as my blood constricts, is corseted by whalebone. I blot the sky with clouds of my own invention and watch the day run like a shawl’s pulled thread,...

      The Stack We hold our dead like chairs hold chairs further and further off the floor until one holds no more.     Tristan Moss lives in York with his partner and two youngish children. He has recently had poems published in London...

      Sister Death Sits on the Back of the Settee It shouldn’t be such a surprise. She knew me better than most people, after all. So cosy. And yes, in the womb I gobbled her up and thought I’d won. But you forget such things. Behind me like a pantomime...