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A Year in Kingcombe by Anita Roy: September
The world was alive, rushing and swooping along with the last three swifts of summer like skipping stones across a green and storm-tossed sea.
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Under a Gooseberry Bush; more new poems by Raine Geoghegan
Patrin – leaves, to be tied up and left on trees by the roadside to let family know which way the wagons went.
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A Peck of Dirt by Tim Dee
Paul saw his moment. He pressed the launch button and the net cannoned over the gulls. They lifted as one as soon as it rose above them.
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Coal Measures by Paul Evans
What dies in the coal forest falls into the water: horsetails, tree ferns, dragonflies and crocodiles rot under the surface of the swamp.
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A Year in Kingcombe by Anita Roy: August
The hottest, driest June on record had simply extended unbroken into July…
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Footprints by Tim Hannigan
This was absolutely the countryside. The spinneys and fields had names, even if no mapmaker had ever thought to seek them out.
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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…
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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,…
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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…
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A Year in Kingcombe by Anita Roy: 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.
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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…
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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.
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