Scotland by Night

Hudson Greig, Contributor.    Two dormice curled in duvet nests, Bleary-eyed listeners watching droplets race Sideways, through streaks of orange light; Tears on the face of the following moon. Laundered pyjamas and pale feet Warmed like toast by dry-eye heaters. Legs to chest, curled into the arm rest For fear of falling, afraid of the

The Flowerbed

Hannah Loughran, Contributor.    There are caterpillars in London’s streets. They are drawn to the petals of King’s Cross, the bloom of Bakerloo and Kensington, the nectar of Piccadilly Circus. By night, or in cold weather one will see them pupa-bound, taking safety in their chrysalis of old sleeping bag or wet cardboard, which used

The Daylight Raid

Anna Conway, Contributor.  In this distance, a man looks as if he is made up of other men who are made of smoke In this distance, the sky ends where the air looks at the rag of heaven In this distance, the footpath gets as close to hell as it can with a swollen black

My People

Anna Conway, Contributor.  My People   My people come from pill boxes half swear, half don’t They come from white rockets and pretty blue boats, they come from shut windows and learning to say what trouble was and what trouble does   My people don’t talk about feelings and wear anger like a wet rag

The Descendant

Anna Frances Conway, Contributor.    The bone structure the eyes like cotton balls the nose like the ace of spades one tear cascades and I don’t know how to catch it.   It’s not mine; I can’t pull the think back into her pink socket the little darling thing, taut as a spring can barely