mercury rising
we groan as the mercury hikes
climbing with the ball of fire
the Hot Weather Warning surrenders its flag
feels like 40 and it’s only May Day
we survive in gasps between
air-conditioned bubbles like goldfish
the elderly populate shopping centres
modern gangs of ageing mallrats
through the park even cicadas complain
a jogger plods by, human bag of perspiration
paced out with silhouettes of thick vegetation
fully occupied with insects seeking shadow
this concrete jungle radiates jazz
high-rise pressure cooks out caution
flowerheads droop, thirsting rain
afar: a brushstroke wisp of cloud
and I pity the pair of emigrated huskies
transplanted into tropical climes
panting their way
to no promised land
Winifred Mok is a Birmingham-based filmmaker/podcaster with a passion for stories, books and site-specific theatre. She likes exploring the spaces of language, culture and identity, and spends most of her time reading, learning, making, and wondering.
A floating view of a pale blue dot
where two ducks swim away
from the world
and thin is the fragility
of the planet’s spin
where the chatter of birdsong pours
into the hubbub of everything human
and dawn paddles its feet
in the shallows
where geese balance on one leg
sleeping inside themselves
until they wake for hours of sun
and swimming
and where you and I have come
to view this planet world
that contains so much more blue
than earth
Sandra Noel is a poet from Jersey, Channel Islands. She has poems published online and in various print magazines and anthologies. Sandra’s debut collection is due to be published in July 2024 by Yaffle.
When The Evil Evening Falls
You are walking in a deserted street. The evening slowly veins on the cupola of the sky. Streaks of starlet swarm in it. For a moment, the world seems as it was before. As your old beautiful world. You stop to watch that spectacular celestial sphere. You even dare to dream about taking your mask out. A stray smile warps your mouth. On your lenses is an alien blush. And a crash. Of a sudden explosion.
Now stop the reel. Wind backwards.
You are walking in a half empty street. Carrying a rifle, you are hunting for canned food. Sultry evening falls like an electrified blanket, leaving you breathless. The world you know is long gone. The world has already surrendered to the heat waves followed by water wars, hunger wars. And hunger is a crazy carnivore in your belly. You turn a corner to see two rifles. Pointed at you. You shoot the air calmly.
Now stop the reel. Wind backwards.
You are walking in a crowded street. Turning back from work. You still have a job but you are hungry. Warm winter evening slowly seeps into the sweltering sky. You dry your sweat, wondering why it gets hotter and hotter every year. Wondering why it doesn’t snow anymore. Why wildfires, thunderstorms, and floods have become the new normal. Over you is a torrid sunset. Over you is a combusted cloud.
Over you the evil evening falls.
Özge Lena‘s poems have appeared in various countries including the UK, USA, Canada, Iceland, Serbia, and France. Her poetry was shortlisted three times by international poetry competitions such as the Ralph Angel Poetry Prize and the Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition in 2021, then for The Plough Poetry Prize in 2023.
If the land were keeping score
I might not press so brashly into tree root lattices to keep my little plastic shoes clean
I might be less doting of the sheen of the moon, more attentive of those celestial bodies
That feed and clothe me, less so of those which try to tempt me into airless space
I might eat more slowly, breathe more deeply the fragrance of nettle steep, be more mindful of
the miracle of vegetables of promising colour glinting in the oil of a pan, I might grind my molars
with the thought close that their substance, too, is borrowed from the minerals of the ground
I might, where possible, make my crossings by foot, make my feet bare so that the land can
speak into my skin directly, make my steps light and unbruising. I might not see specs of earth
substance as undesirable against the blank and unwieldy materials of my indoor life.
I might spare moments for the sounds of winds rushing or birds professing their small bodies’
grand desires. I might feel leaf movements as something wilder and more intimate than
intention, small mammals darting from me in fear as the ancient solace of the survival of souls.
I might never feel separate or lost, I might be a small cycle in a medium cycle in a larger cycle,
alchemising leaf to bone, water to language. I might be a fleeting flower on the branch of a great
sprawling tree for its moment on bursting spring, so tender and so bold in my moment of life.
Alannah Taylor is a writer living in London with a keen interest in nature. Her work has previous appeared in Butcher’s Dog Poetry Magazine and Sacred Cow magazine.