Little voice

Oh, Robin. Our encounters
are so singularly memorable.
You landed on our left wing mirror
in the National Trust car park
in Hawkshead, so close I could see
each little breath you took,
so bold just perching there
and yet way too close and shy to sing.

And on a bench one fine Spring day,
the river path from Grassington to Burnsall.
I dropped tempting flakes of pastry
from my sausage roll and you pecked
around my running shoes. We watched
distant wild swimmers gad the wharf,
gas, laugh in that high-pitched way
that only giddy swimmers can, living
the best of themselves, like us,
just being there. I thought
you were about to perch on my knee
till you were spooked by a heron,
landing like a sea plane a little upstream.

And this cold December morning,
singing from the holly bush
by Kildwick Church, like some novelty
Christmas card that cost a small fortune
from Clintons before it closed down;
then panting like a multicoloured dog,
gathering another song from your tiny
abdomen at the bottom of your red breast
to your undertail coverts, your own carol
tweeting forth, each little breath a cloud.

Mark Connors is a poet, novelist, publisher and creative writing tutor from Leeds, with nine books to his name and more on the way in 2026. Mark is a co-founder of Yaffle Press. Visit www.yafflepress.co.uk and www.markconnors.co.uk.

Love Song for Snow

I carried you in my heart to Central Park,
you burnt my face as I walked past Wonderland Alice.

She wore you like a hat and coat.

I’ve been missing you again.
Truth be told—I can’t live without you.

Because of childhood.
Because of things I buried in you.

I can’t live without you.
I’m trapped knee-high in childhood snow.

I love the way you slow everything down to noticing.

As a child, I became a sort of God—sculpting people,
crowning you with hats, muffling you with scarves.

I handled your rawness without gloves.

And falling face down into you as snow angel
always felt like a good thing.

You know the coldest parts of me,
and the things that melt me too.

They should erect a museum dedicated to you.
Just in case we ever lose you.

Michelle Diaz has been published in numerous journals, both online and in print. Her debut pamphlet The Dancing Boy was published in 2019 by Against the Grain Press. Her new pamphlet Raising Ghosts is due out in 2026.

Evensong

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. Shuffling footsteps in the aisle have me predicting who might be about to go past. Slowly and steadily polar bears are settling into the pews around me. Their black claws lightly clasp copies of The Book of Common Prayer. One across the aisle is flicking the pages randomly as if speed reading, another puffs out fishy breath in celebration of finding the right page. One on the row in front asks me if I am going to sing today. I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out. The bear smiles encouragingly before turning back to face the altar. The pair who held one another’s hands to get to the front row wink at me when the rector says we’re going to the pub afterwards. There’s a dubious stain on the opening pages of my hymn book. I keep it tightly shut, resist the urge to look again at the hint of fingerprints within the brown. And I am worried that the youngest bear is going to bite the gold cross and I won’t know whether to try to stop him or not.

Sue Finch is the author of Magnifying Glass, Welcome to the Museum of a Life, and Vortex Over Wave. She loves the coast, peculiar things, and the scent of ice-cream freezers.