Today’s choice

Previous poems

Col Fleetwood

 

 

 

Muckle Flugga
 
Unmoored on an ocean of heather
no wind to pluck the strings
of the aeolian harp

Policed by the unsettling glare
of nesting great skuas
we tread the narrow path

The boardwalk rises and falls
under a sky empty
and scoured of song

To the lighthouse
in search of the solan goose
we press on

Until all land ends
pearl-studded cliffs rear up
to arrest us

And the pitch of the sea
snares the unquiet silence
of our voices

 

 

Col Fleetwood lives and writes in the wild and beautiful borderlands between Scotland and England.

Helen Finney

At my feet the window sprawls a view of kneaded land,
craggy baked by the hand of the gods, dusted green
with short bit grass.

Eugene O’Hare

It hasn’t been this bright all year –
the moon’s white scalp, spot-lit,

a head turned away from a thing
the rest of us fear: unearthly dark

Mark Czanik

I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.