Today’s choice
Previous poems
Lorna Rose Gill
I Don’t Remember Breakfast With You
Maybe I remember getting brunch;
or the time the dog ate my croissant;
or when you fed me strawberries ironically in bed
and we giggled with sugar on our lips.
These breakfasts bubbled like new rivers.
Now, mornings are made of muesli on the sofa,
the dog between us, coffee and juice.
We didn’t mean for routine. We put it together
piece by piece and the sun agreed.
Lorna Rose Gill is a poet and facilitator. She lives on the Wirral with a man and two dogs and is mostly inspired by the liminal space of the intertidal zone. Find her on Instagram @lornarosegill and theorangeverse.substack.com
Andy Hoaen
On flat plains of low juniper scrub
monolithic, massive remnants of ice
dwarf the land, draws the herds: mammoth, deer, horse
Gordon Vells
Not the boring twin.
Not even benign.
This is a proper island:
rocks, foghorn, lighthouse.
Jacob Burgess Rollo
Jacob Burgess Rollo is a poet and prose writer based in Dorset, his work is featured in From the Lighthouse and Avant Cardigan, a zine he founded with friends. He has an English Literature BA from Durham and is going on to study for a master's in...
Dilys Wyndham Thomas
we walk through the exhibition hall lost
amongst water-logged bones, a sunk haul lost
Ruth Lexton
It is late at night and the kettle is boiling,
a quire of steam fanning out in the white kitchen
you are holding me as if I were your girl again
Stewart Carswell
It’s the house at the end.
White paint flakes off the front gate,
wood rots beneath.
Chris Kinsey
Hey cat, you’re doing really well,
three fields stalked and only one to go.
Holly Magill
. . .you’re swallowed whole
into this cocoon: pine-scent, antibac and the dry
whoosh of his heater – lean your careworn bones into
synthetic leather snug, . . .
Dave Simmons
My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.