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Category / The Clearing / Poetry

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  • New Poems by Eleanor Rees, Tim Cresswell and 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.

  • Elysium found? by Paul Kingsnorth

    Arcadia is like a bucket of cold water to the face. Wake up! it shouts. Wake up! Look! This world you see on screen is alien, and yet it brings a shiver of recognition. What is that in the trees? What do I see from the corner of my eye? I have been here before.​

  • 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.

  • In Praise of Dandelions by Gerard Fosse

    I remove an individual dandelion seed and let it drop onto my notebook. I keep plucking, and ten minutes later I have a pile of 82 seeds (or 83, but I’m not counting again) wavering across the pad in a soft froth.

  • A Year in Kingcombe: April

    The trees, still mainly leafless, maintained their wintery silhouettes, but there was a sort of haze, a shimmer, in their upper branches now, like a whisper made visible, the hint of new growth, the gathering of the green storm.

  • One Place — Poetry by Jane Routh

    ‘When you know a place lifelong, you’ve no need of maps;
    every name has its shapes and its feel underfoot:
    Helks, Jacksons Pasture, Perry Moor – even the fields
    have names: Robins Close, Parrocks Meadow.’

  • Made in England by Fran Edgerley

    She loves the stories hidden in the landscape – particular hedges, the small paths that signify cross-breeding links, farming styles, a new kerbside or a route home. To me Dorothy Hartley is a fellow student following the complex web of how the physical, natural world translates to our daily and cultural material experience.

  • Shepherd’s Watch by Melanie Viets

    I slip my hand deep inside the ewe. Reach in turn for one front hoof then bent leg. My fingers meet the inner wall of the ewe’s womb, her muscles ribbed in symmetry with the ridges of the ram’s horns.

  • The Signless Signpost by Peter Reason

    As the water poured over the sills we could see it in several different forms: hanging just above the top sill, oily blue, darkly mirroring the sky; falling in a smooth sheet down the face of the weir, sparkling with light; breaking into cataracts that fell like braids; tumbling chaotically over the next sill; and so on down.

  • Dear Vodafone by Martin Maudsley

    I’m writing to you about a tree. A pine tree, perhaps a hundred years old, maybe a little older, that until yesterday stood on a hill at the edge Bridport in Dorset. It’s a tree that you felled yesterday to make way for a new mobile phone mast. I’ll tell you the story as it happened, and at the end I’ll ask you to tell me a story in return.