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  • Four new poems: Robert Ford, Mark Haworth Booth, Garry Mackenzie, Oliver Southall

    New poetry by Robert Ford, Mark Haworth Booth, Garry Mackenzie and Oliver Southall   Spit, by Robert Ford   Inches only beyond where the ripe green of the dune-edge peters out, contour lines…

  • Heart of Oak by Dexter Petley

    1 Family Trees One September morning, I woke to find that most of the trees in the forest around me had been spray-painted with those dreaded red rings of the oak hunter,…

  • An interview with Helen Jukes

    Helen Jukes’ debut book A Honeybee Heart has Five Openings was published last week. Here she speaks to Michael Malay about what it means to keep bees, to be kept by them, and…

  • Undertow by David Bradford

    It was Bill’s fault: he brought us here, that summer of 1990.

  • A Year in Kingcombe: July

    The hottest, driest June on record had simply extended unbroken into July, and apart from one brief downpour, which barely managed to soak the topsoil, looked set to unroll till the end of summer.

  • Quartz by Linda Cracknell

    In the summer of 2016 I part-rode, part-pushed my bicycle, loaded with a tent and some art materials, across the narrow waist of the Udal peninsula on the Hebridean island of North…

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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…

  • A Year in Kingcombe: May

    I walked along the lane leading up to the Wessex Ridgeway, the way I’d come in January.  The trees had lost the sharp distinction of winter, and even the crisp pointillism of early spring had given way to a kind of blurring – a soft wash of green.

  • Dustsceawung by Ben Egerton

    After her mother dies she thinks it good to dig her plot:
    nineteen metres by thirteen, and given
    over to goosegrass and offcuts of carpet, tucked
    in the far corner of the allotments

  • Entanglement by Christopher Nicholson

    There came the point when the secateur blades were within an inch of the antlers, which in the poor light seemed as grey as the honeysuckle. Then the roebuck had had enough. In one convulsive movement it flung itself into the air and broke free. It hurtled away, crashing downhill, disappearing into the darkness of the trees.