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Author / Jon Woolcott
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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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Hortus Conclusus during a Pandemic by Suzanne Joinson
Now the lockdown is in full force I read Hortus in bed every night.
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Earrach Geamraidh: The Winter Spring by Kerri ní Dochartaigh
What we give in these days will be the things that we have been gathering up for many years.
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Running for the Trees by Suzanne Joinson
It seems to me that in these last days the trees have expanded. Their presence – always noble and impressive – has increased, deepened.
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Gutted Arcades by Jeff Young
And I’m walking with him. He’s still haunting the city after all these years, since he left the place and never returned.
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Interpreter of the Dream by Alex Woodcock
I was lying in bed, the room exactly the same. There was some light, suggesting morning, a sort of grey and translucent light.
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Ancient Hollow Grief by Kerri ní Dochartaigh
All is not lost. There is still time. We are still here, and we must remember that it is in the day to day living that we must change things…
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FOUNDLE by Tanya Shadrick, Jo Sweeting and Louisa Thomsen Brits
The chisel is held loosely in the hand so that it can strike the stone and transmit its voice through depth and out into air. A clear ring is heard which sings and resonates.
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