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.

Andy Breckenridge

      Abertawe After Richard Siken For CHD Tell me about the time I mansplained that Swansea is the English for Abertawe and means town at the mouth of the River Tawe. And about when, from the hill above Rhossili beach Lundy Island’s spectral mass...

Lesley Burt

Red-hot-pokers blazon her two world wars in flowerbeds, and in her hearth. The coalman drops odd nuggets under gaslight for neighbours to fetch in a bucket.

Philip Gross

This is the song of the cells’
soft throb, the quivering coherences,
their shuffling the profit and loss
of life, to have and to hold.