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Author / Jon Woolcott
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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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Ice Works by Martin Hesp
Snow meant: you do what you want, while nothing else moves and nothing else is happening. This is your white world.
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On Entering the Wrong Carriage by Rachel J Fenton
Only I am taking things slow, of course; nature is busy. The pear tree that two weeks ago resembled me bowed by the weekly grocery shop now has its branches empty.
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Happy the Man by Gareth Evans
Happy the man who hears no birds above the clamour of his false words
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Birds of Firle by Tanya Shadrick
Twenty-one rooks printed and stuck into that fifty-pence notebook. To be offered in turn to anyone, anywhere, who would write back with their thoughts.
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Placing the Mark, Marking the Place by B. G. Nichols
Over time, I began to transfer my little votives from one place to another, creating invisible filaments, lines of organic energy that connected me to a place.
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A Rewilding Diary by Emily Warner
My work in Glen Affric has also been a tale of collaboration: friends, field-assistants and family giving themselves wholly to my fieldwork for chunks of time.
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The Emboughered by Dickie Straker
Last night, I rambled through memory paths, leaf litter, the sounds of dawn and dusk and the spicy aroma of autumn, of carp slime, beech mast and silt.
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