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New poems by Raine Geoghegan
a basket full of Worcester Pearmans at your feet.
You take the smallest one,
wipe it on your purple apron,![]()
Iceland’s Green Mantle by Nancy Campbell
On that visit I learned that weather makes it perilous to explore the mountainous Tröllskagi region in winter.
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Birdsong by Jay Griffiths
If I offered my notation, birds seem to sing the names of composers (particularly Russian) – Straviiinski, Straviiinski, or Tchaíkovski, Tchaíkovski, Tchaí! Sometimes chirping Tippett, Tippett, Tippett then calling low and sweet Keeats, Keeats, Keeats.
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Six Ashdown Forest Poems by Siân Thomas
From Crowborough to gorse is a few minutes’ journey to the past,
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Iain Sinclair on The Unofficial Countryside
The Unofficial Countryside is a proper reckoning, the Doomsday Book of a topography too fascinating to be left alone.
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The Cottage in the Weald: Walter Murray and Copsford by Tom Wareham
For nine months he lived there alone, gradually becoming more and more absorbed into nature and the landscape.
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Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall on the Fat of the Land
For all these reasons, John Seymour’s is a voice that still needs to be heard, and a voice that can change lives, including perhaps yours.
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Shelter from the storm – remembering W. S. Merwin by Michael Malay
In this time of uncertain weather and relentless loss, to plant trees can be a radical act.
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Turtle Dove by Chris Baker
We sang Turtle Dove inside Copsale Hall, a corrugated iron-beauty surrounded by trees, erected the same year Williams collected the song.
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White Plastic Forks by Polly Butcher
When I was younger, I remember waking to hear birdsong outside my window.
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Stardust by Alex Woodcock
The slab was the first thing in the van. A piece of Irish limestone about three feet by one foot by three inches thick. Probably the heaviest single thing I owned: I…
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A rewilding diary by Emily Warner
Glen Affric in the throes of summer was a very different landscape to its April incarnation. Shades of orange and brown had been replaced by a spectrum of greens.
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