‘A Brock Geology’ by Jean Atkin

A Brock Geology Night falls & ………………………………………………fills the dingle with badgers badgers pressing grasses…………………………………………………to bent curves they feed & drink  ………………………………………………& play, they trail their piebald noses low ……………………………………………..to flow of brook & deep below, taste all the cold ………………………………………….then warming rocks red iron beneath their ………………………………………………………paws & pads they follow glint of mica ………………………………………………….in their skulls unlock the parish scents ……………………………………………..fling back its soil behind … Continue reading ‘A Brock Geology’ by Jean Atkin

‘The Data Quality Analyst’s Lot’ by Hilaire

  For every if, an else, a then. For every cursor, a loop that ends. Each open bracket must be closed; so single quotes must come in pairs and double quotes—ditto. Her joy is found in datasets, in structured queries and parsed syntax. Wild cards flourish within her fields, while table by table she builds her joins on left or right, eschewing Cartesian product for … Continue reading ‘The Data Quality Analyst’s Lot’ by Hilaire

Two poems by Sohini Basak

    They have more to say Mud on their mandibles the wasps are carrying around my anger — expensive black limiting the gold. I am chewing paper, processing letters claiming that put in the wrong compartment these part bee part ant creatures of summer can bring down aeroplanes. The wasps take earth to air and build their stalactite organ pipe where they will choose … Continue reading Two poems by Sohini Basak

‘On Laundry Day’ by Florence Lenaers

On Laundry Day on laundry day check the pockets, question them, make them tell you what they know. (for the washing machine won’t hear of it.) slip your hand inside—careful, don’t fall head over heels. eel-catch-catch a folded candy wrapper; looks familiar, doesn’t it? like an ear, dried & pressed in a blank book for hours; looks like a lonely Sunday morning multiplied by that … Continue reading ‘On Laundry Day’ by Florence Lenaers

‘Helgafell’ by Tony Williams

Helgafell There is a quarry in my heart. The lovely lanes divide. One humps from Upperwood to Uppertown and Ember Lane, and Ember Farm (my family’s farm, which has not been our farm for fifty years). At Bonsall’s market cross the clot of stone sends tassels out towards the Barley Mow, the moor, and down towards the valley’s narrow chute that lands with laughing splashes … Continue reading ‘Helgafell’ by Tony Williams