Today’s choice
Previous poems
Rachael Clyne
Homeland
And if a land loses its people and they
are exiled will a land feel their absence
will it dream of their calloused feet
on its warm skin will it grieve the touch
of hands familiar with the ways of its vines
when to pluck its fruits how to shape its earth
and stones into homes will it miss the sounds
of its language on their tongues
will the land remember them or cherish
their blood and bones that fed its soil
will the land resent the tread
of different feet or refuse to bear fruit
under new hands or will it flourish
and if the people keep the key to their homes
even if the doors they unlocked are now
a car park or the street demolished
will the keys sing them back despite bombs
or famine and if a people are uprooted
will they wander and yearn until longing
becomes their dwelling place will they
find shelter in other lands or will they flee
because people of other lands do not want them
and if after all the fleeing and wandering
the urge to return is unstoppable
will the land rejoice and welcome them back
will it cleave itself in two for the sake of all
will the people belong at last
will the land find peace
will the story
Rachael Clyne from Glastonbury, is widely published in journals. Her latest collection You’ll Never Be Anyone Else (Seren) covers themes of identity and otherness including, migrant heritage, LGBTQ relationships. @rachaelclyne.bsky.social
Anne Symons
She was only a little woman
five feet nothing in nylon stockings.
‘If I stood sideways they’d mark me absent.’
Ben
When she said ‘could’, it was clearly in italics
and when she said ‘one day’, the creak of glaciers
shuddered around its edges.
Dragana Lazici
the days are long but the years are short.
seconds are tiny kitchen knives in my back.
i stopped reading Dickinson, her voice is a sad parrot.
Abigail Ottley
Faces, unless they come swimming up close. are a blur of piggy-pink and ice-
cream. In the street, she doesn’t know, cannot be certain when to smile, when to
look away
Maggie Mackay
The teacher is an old spindly man. Grim, out of a Grimm’s tale. Scarecrow hair, thinning. Unsmiling.
Natasha Gauthier
The tawny clutch appeared
on high-heeled evenings only,
slept in a nest of white tissue.
Romy Morreo
She only speaks to me these days
through groaning floorboards in the night
and slammed doors.
Emma Simon
No-one has seen a ghost while breast-feeding
despite the unearthly hours, the half-light
mad sing-song routines of rocking a child
back to sleep.
Kushal Poddar
The furniture covered in once
transparent now foggy sheets
craft the room a morgue, and we
identity the bodies