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Quartz by Linda Cracknell

In the summer of 2016 I part-rode, part-pushed my bicycle, loaded with a tent and some art materials,…

Dee guts 2

My Rock by Tim Dee

In hospital, I was often asked to rank my pain on a scale of one – not so bad – to ten – deadly. I answered, thinking of the Avon Gorge near my home, its savage gash of limestone perpetually wounded by a muddy river.

among the grasses

A Year in Kingcombe: June

It was a typical English summer’s day, in that it felt like early November and I was regretting not bringing my gloves. The wind clawed through the sycamore and chestnuts, yanking their leaves back at the wrist and setting their silver undersides streaming, while above them, the hilltops vanished into the low-bellied clouds.

MAY-CLEARING-DMc---Rees

New Poems by Eleanor Rees, Tim Cresswell & Ralph Pite

The stone is not inert / but processing the darkness, turning it back into
light, / light turning back into dark…

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