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Author / Jon Woolcott
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GRIEF, PLACE, LANDSCAPE: For Sarah by Peony Gent
I actively thought nothing about the Fens until a long time after I left them. They were a place I only grew to see when they became coloured with the contrast of living elsewhere.
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GRIEF, PLACE, LANDSCAPE – A contradiction of sorts by Marie Smith
I knew no-one but I enjoyed myself nevertheless; I met people in bars, managed to negotiate the city with tips from social media. I seemed to be carrying myself on an adventurous spirit that I never knew I had.
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GRIEF, PLACE, LANDSCAPE – She Exhales by Maxim Peter Griffin
you could buy a bungalow under the sea wall for buttons – she used to bring the kids here – they used to go up Jackson’s and pour coppers in the slots
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New poetry by Andrew Forster
Up the beach a sandstone wall, crumbling
to pinkish powder, is reclaimed by tide
and weather.![]()
Excerpt from The Open Places by Dominic Cooper
The idea of the Old Wood never quite lets go. Its shadow is always there, pressing imperceptibly at the margins of what is light and conscious in us.
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Eight West Dorset Church Porches by Alison Bunning and Virginia Astley
Stepping between diagonal buttresses
they climb the lichened steps
below the swallows’ nests and crenellations
to the shrine of St Wite.![]()
Set in Stone by Sophie Pierce
This place feels like a receptacle of memory. A sanctum. I think it’s why these sites draw me, and why I need to make regular pilgrimages to them.
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Bone Light by Suzanne Joinson
The next day is grey and gloomy, the mist low. I pause. Should I walk amongst the sad trees and down the empty lane?
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One Blue Moment by Simon Smith
Kingfisher is what my brain shouted out to me as it sprinted to catch up. In fact, the first blurred, melded notion that actually occurred to me was Kingfisherflash.
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The Wild Nearby by Julian Hoffman
What made them important to me was the sense that they could heal over you, like sap hardening across the wound in a tree.
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The White in the Woods by Richard Hibbert
From stubby twigs or chunks of wood, ones that were especially replete with water, come the most spectacular flowers of frost.
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New poems by Graham Mort
There are the red cattle, woken
from a cave painting, daubed
with red clay into an old religion
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