Menu

    Loading posts...
  • 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.

  • 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.