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Category / Essay / illustration / The Clearing
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GRIEF, PLACE, LANDSCAPE – She Exhales by Maxim Peter Griffin
you could buy a bungalow under the sea wall for buttons – she used to bring the kids here – they used to go up Jackson’s and pour coppers in the slots
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Excerpt from The Open Places by Dominic Cooper
The idea of the Old Wood never quite lets go. Its shadow is always there, pressing imperceptibly at the margins of what is light and conscious in us.
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Set in Stone by Sophie Pierce
This place feels like a receptacle of memory. A sanctum. I think it’s why these sites draw me, and why I need to make regular pilgrimages to them.
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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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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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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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Walking boots and binoculars by George Hassall
These moors are Britain’s wet deserts, drowned by rain pretty much every day and howled by the winds.
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