Today’s choice
Previous poems
Play, National Poetry Day: Heather Hughes, Laura Webb, Jude Brigley
Four-Leaf Clover
We searched so long for that clover.
Every time the sun shone we scoured
the fields and woods, running past
the children playing with skipping ropes
and hula hoops. Then you came to me
and said you found one. The tape
transparent as water. I said
you hadn’t found one, you made it.
You said it was better to make something
than to find it. I wasn’t sure – too scared
to touch the tape, temporary as a bandage.
Eventually someone found one in the playground
and dropped it when break ended.
Our fingers wrestled. The school bell
rang like a gong. Your red face and hands.
The fourth leaf lay severed in my hands.
Heather Hughes is an English teacher who lives in the Lake District. She has a BA and MA in Literary Studies with Creative Writing from Lancaster University. She won the Foyle Young Poets of the Year award in 2019, and her poems have been published in Obsessed with Pipework, Flash, Dreamcatcher, and on Acumen’s young poets page. She writes a range of fiction and poetry and is currently working on a dark fairytale poetry collection about the female body.
Midsummers
pink plastic buckets
they try to lift the sun
from a rockpool
*
first kiss
behind the old lighthouse
burnt cheeks turn redder
*
after the rave
grains of sand in held hands
pulsing dawn
Laura Webb is a resident doctor near Brighton, UK, whose work explores themes of illness and healing, folklore and ecology. She co-edits the science poetry journal Consilience and is studying towards an MA at the Poetry School/Newcastle University.

Jude Brigley is Welsh. She has been a teacher, an editor and performance poet. She now writes more for the page. She is in her third age and is a woman in a hurry which is exemplified by having over twenty poems published this year. Publications in magazines include ‘Gyroscope’, “Alchemy Spoon’ and ‘High windows’.
Joe Crocker
Hold a rule beside her measured look.
Precisely fix the time it took
to meet and break away.
David Adger
being unnatural
he fixes his sight past the fields
of bere and oat and the woods
of birch, his goat-eyes watch
two worlds at once
NJ Hynes
It was so quiet she could hear her hair grow,
heartbeat stretch across measures, nails twist
into mobius strips . . .
Steph Morris
from another picture swiped a nice cyan
tore the lemon horrors off it
and slapped it straight
in this picture . . .
Amlanjyoti Goswami
In one of those colourful stalls
A gentle man with golden fingers
Carves a wheelbarrow from broken wood
Jacquie Wyatt
I think of that study that showed
the smaller the animal
the slower time passes for them…
Lara Frankena
The poet disregards the soup
she reencounters it on the hob
at a merry boil
not a slow simmer as instructed…
Antonia Taylor
That year I hunted Emily Dickinson. Stood at her grave as the snowbank split me open. Further from love than I’d ever been.
Helen T Curtis
You seemed to be born blind.
At first in cracked pot, in frosted compost
Your leaves pined – jaded limp swords