Today’s choice
Previous poems
Kerry Darbishire
For the love of a fellside
after The Lost Garden of Loughrigg
– Penn Allen
Imagine a spring day drawing out possibilities
the newness of life, sisters in long skirts digging
tangled ground, breaking bones and loam wild
with bracken and rock on this south facing slope.
Then, the building of an enclosure to protect plants
from deer and sheep. Long ago this affair
before my mother walked me up a sweeping track
to be wrapped in scented blooms nurtured from seedlings –
cuttings – discoveries posted from wildest China:
Primula Purdomii for stars, Gentian for sky
Viburnum for fragrance – treasures arriving each week
in packages – perennials for sun, for shade to be planted
in harmony. A garden with a view to the Langdale Pikes
and air once breathed never left your lungs
and the cool damp mist rising from the River Brathay
in mornings reluctant to let go the night. All this
what it was to be here, the guardians waking each day
to seven acres of crag knowing your hands and heart
belong to this patch of earth.
Kerry Darbishire lives remotely in Cumbria, a landscape that inspires most of her poems. She has collections and pamphlets published and many poems have appeared in anthologies and magazines. Her latest pamphlet, River Talk is with Hedgehog Press.
Alice O’Malley-Woods
i run like a goat
tongue-lolled
Caiti Luckhurst
But first the sun has to break in two
Mara Adamitz Scrupe
on that new broke land I don’t anymore
recall there may have been a tree line or a hedgerow
a grove named & a bird’s sternum
George Sandifer-Smith
Spring 1833 – mists folding their sheets in the fields.
Isaac Roberts feels the turned earth, his father’s
farm an island in the hurtling Milky Way –
Sharon Phillips
Wet tarmac blinks red and gold,
names shine outside the Gaumont.
‘Stop dreaming, you’ll get lost.’
Bill Greenwell
Before the first turn of the key, before
adjusting the mirror, before releasing the handbrake even,
Dad said: there are two things you need to know.
Matt Gilbert
Alive, but not exactly,
as it fills the frame, flicker-lit
by lightning. . .
Rebecca Gethin
This morning
the room is bright with snowlight
and everything seems illuminated differently.
Lorraine Carey
Every Sunday he insists on beef
from Boggs’s butchers, a forty minute drive
away.