Loading cart contents...
-
![]()
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.
-
![]()
New poems by Graham Mort
There are the red cattle, woken
from a cave painting, daubed
with red clay into an old religion -
![]()
To draw in the footsteps of ghosts by Christine Mackey
Christine Mackey explores the relationship that communities have with newly-planted woodlands.
-
![]()
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.
-
![]()
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.
-
![]()
Happy the Man by Gareth Evans
Happy the man who hears no birds above the clamour of his false words
-
![]()
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.
-
![]()
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.
-
![]()
A Rewilding Diary by Emily Warner
My work in Glen Affric has also been a tale of collaboration: friends, field-assistants and family giving themselves wholly to my fieldwork for chunks of time.
-
![]()
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.
-
![]()
Seasonal Disorder by Martin Maudsley
But letting go is not the same as losing something. Without the wind in my sails I was helplessly, horribly becalmed. Like the songbirds in summer, I’d lost my voice, and the world around me changed its tune.
-
![]()
The Emboughered by Dickie Straker
Last night, I rambled through memory paths, leaf litter, the sounds of dawn and dusk and the spicy aroma of autumn, of carp slime, beech mast and silt.
Loading posts...
You May Also Like
Mono by Laura ParkerIn midsummer we march between the stiffly regimented wheat across a level horizon. […]
Trophies by Graham MortSwifts have been returning to the village for centuries. […]
Calling Time by David Hinchliffe Bradford...he would dote on his beloved species and take up arms against others. […]