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Author / Jon Woolcott
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Shap to Plumgarths by David Banning
a song scattering a trail of columns and façades throughout the north of England.
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Chorus by James Roberts
A pink-headed fruit dove has just opened its eyes and uttered a soft, almost inaudible hoo.
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Flower Grace by Philip Strange
I saw the grace of the butterfly and how, in turn, it lends this grace to the flower.
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Dear White West Country People by Louisa Adjoa Parker
We’ve watched the same cattle, heads bent to the grass
Stood by the same sea, that sheet of blue glass![]()
You Came To Me by Autumn Richardson
I feel you as a current
as dark, as sinuous, as
a cormorant slipping through
the belly of the sea![]()
Jeff Young reading from Ghost Town
This is where nana, Queen of Red Rock Street, sat at the kitchen table, spooning sugar into glasses of lemonade to take away the fizz.
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This Wall by Sarah Hymas
Unlike a footprint on the moon, deep as the day it was made, the tracks made during the lighthouse repair are sluiced slowly by tides.
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Red kite – back from the brink by Jodie Bond
She boasts a shimmer of feathers, tobacco and rust, a phoenix echo as they catch the fire of sunset.
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The Ground is All Memoranda by Gill Horitz
The other night I woke to the sound of a car drawing up to the house, then another and another…
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Corvid Tales on Covid Days by Suzanne Joinson
Even now, if you listen carefully you can hear the ghost of Boney in the trees.
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Spring and its discontents by Robin Walter
I am beginning to feel the strings tug and draw me up again, restoring my shape.
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Magic Places by Sara Hudston
I look up from my desk now and see a male bullfinch nipping blackthorn buds, his smart coral and charcoal plumage vivid against white blossom.
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