Today’s choice
Previous poems
Sally Spiers
Windless Day
Night’s white noise is over. Day arises
to stillness. Light crouches behind windows,
presses through chinks. Dawn’s chorus
conceals a speck of silence that casts a shadow
stretching vast across the floor.
Double-checking in the cereal bowls, Day reveals
emptiness disguised as a cornflake. A stale
sandwich left overnight curls at the edges.
Day crawls like a hangover along city roads,
behind mountains, trawls the dark mirror of landfill
and finds her reflection no longer ripples.
Wind has grown up and moved away,
packing every half-decent breeze and musty blow.
As if the last breath of night has stranded her high
on a cliff face. A forgotten guillemot jumpling
sits on a ledge. No-one left to encourage its leap.
Sally Spiers is retired and lives in North London. She has had poems published by the International Times, Artemesia, Brighton and Hove poetry competition, South Downs Poetry Competition and Wild Fire. She won first prize in the Charm Poetry competition 2024. She is an active member of the Peace movement and organises a London wide poetry study group.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas we bring you Mark Connors, Michelle Diaz, Sue Finch
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.
On the First Day of Christmas we bring you Sarah Mnatzaganian, Rebecca Gethin, Jenni Thorne
Towards the Solstice
owls fly closer in December twilight,
call to each other across the garden.
Martin Fisher
Inside, in the half-light, the iron rot took hold.
Forgotten service–obsolete.
Salt-coin neglect.
The money flowed inland,
Moored on an hourglass choke.
No one told the sea.
Craig Dobson
Out of morning
a misted light,
glowing fire
in the air.
Steven Taylor
A very long time ago
Stephen Fry’s godfather, the
Justice, Sir Oliver Popplewell
Who chaired the inquiry
Into the Bradford City
Amirah Al Wassif
Beneath my armpit lives a Sinbad the size of a thumb.
His imagination feeds through an umbilical cord tied to my womb.
Now and then, people hear him speaking through a giant microphone—
Singing,
Cracking jokes,
Mark Smith
In the portacabin that morning, men smoked
and looked at last week’s paper again.
There was no water to fill the urn.
The first job – to get connected
Toby Cotton
A blustery day –
the wind too strong for kites
or for lifts to the sky.
“To a thoughtful spot,” it cites
and pins me to the earth.
Ansuya Patel
except this burnt red vase.
Hand shaped in the muffled roar,
devouring flame in the furnace’s mouth.