Today’s choice
Previous poems
Abby Crawford
Stonevale
When I was born
the house was full
of stones, an old blacksmiths shed.
Rubble became walls,
became home.
I used a brush as tall as me
to brush debris, dust, oyster shells.
In my blue gingham dress and boots.
We lived down from the street,
by the river, where the cloud god
threw his towel over the sun
and light took on the muteness
of a sound proofed room.
At the bottom of the water
one hundred fishes in unison
told me this was the beginning.
Abby Crawford is a poet and interdisciplinary artist based in Devon, UK. She has been published online in journals and received a commended in the Crysse Morrison prize 2023. She is currently working on her first pamphlet. Website: https://linktr.ee/abbymcrawford
Finola Scott
Winter dusk soughs in, dark
clouds threaten, tangle her wool.
Huw Gwynn-Jones
Black is the colour inside black light on
blackened brick and slats
Clare Morris
Necessity, that scold’s bridle, held her humble and mean,
So that she no longer spoke, just looked –
Her world reduced to a search for special offers . . .
Alison Jones
Mrs Norris had thought ascension
would be whirligig rides in bright violet rays,
as the training books all implied.
Sandra Noel
The tide unpleats from her godet,
zig-zags in running stitch
round the base of the côtil.
Matthew Caley
supposedly: if I am to render
‘a man’ then
this ‘man’ must I guess resemble me‹›
Jenny Robb
The nun in charge of the children is thin, her back straight as punishment.
Ken Evans
You try doing star-jumps, steps,
or squats, in knee-high wellies.
Joe Williams
I was born in a town of shadows.