Today’s choice
Previous poems
T N Kennedy
Forever Spring
inside the apiary it is always spring
human beings and honey bees cohabiting
pursuing life everlasting for our species
which is the universe opening its eyes
50 per cent humidity 21 degrees celsius
simulated sunlight cold and bone white
substitute pollen surrogate nectar
tricks to tempt the bees to linger
and keep the honey flowing the keepers
do not live there but wish to farm
those tiny furred workers mining
for a different kind of gold a perpetual
nourishment machine some kind
of twenty-first century alchemy
T N Kennedy is a Londoner of Irish heritage who writes poetry, fiction and songs. In 2025, her written work appeared in The Amphibian and Ink Sweat & Tears. She is currently working on a debut poetry collection and a novel. She blogs at apostilian.com
Kate Vanhinsbergh
We Should Probably Get Up Now
but, outside, the world has paused:
the wind has put down its loneliness
Bel Wallace
Interior My dear, I washed you out of my sheets. And now I sleep softly in them. My dreams are sweet and free. I opened the windows to air out your smoke. I liked it for a while, how it held the past in its wispy fingers. I emptied your cigarette...
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas we bring you Rachel Burns, Lauren Middleton, Hedy Hume
I start the day early with a cup of tea.
A new diary asks I make an affirmation,
while cleaning my teeth.
I have nothing to offer –
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas we bring you Mary Mulholland, Edward Heathman, Edward Alport
No Nordmann firs in Bethlehem.
No holly or ivy. But pomegranate,
almond, fig and olive trees to anoint
with signs of blessing and peace.
And houses don’t smell of Balsam
On the Tenth Day of Christmas we bring you Rupert Loydell, Ruth Aylett, Eithne Cullen
The village is made of darkness and wood smoke
and the hunting owls sounding from the garrigue.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas we bring you Mark Connors, Michelle Diaz, Sue Finch
Today I am in church again. I have come for silent reflection in one of my favourite seats, but it feels a little closer to the edge than usual.
On the First Day of Christmas we bring you Sarah Mnatzaganian, Rebecca Gethin, Jenni Thorne
Towards the Solstice
owls fly closer in December twilight,
call to each other across the garden.
Martin Fisher
Inside, in the half-light, the iron rot took hold.
Forgotten service–obsolete.
Salt-coin neglect.
The money flowed inland,
Moored on an hourglass choke.
No one told the sea.
Craig Dobson
Out of morning
a misted light,
glowing fire
in the air.