Publications

Clouds Reflected

Even a puddle can do this:
become a piece of sky
layered with trees
beside the wild garlic.

Angela Topping

Angela Topping has 8 collections and 4 pamphlets of poetry to her name. She is a former Writer in Residence at Gladstone’s Library, and her work has appeared in quality journals and over 100 anthologies. She tweets @AngelaTopping

About Angela

Photo credit @thesollers at http://www.unsplash.com

A Conference Of Crows

They paint black coats
on fence poles, perched
close to the waterfront

arms behind backs
stern as schoolmasters
in gowns at assembly

stare fearless into wind
raging from Irish Sea
taking turns to caw

strategy in corvid code.
A morning conference
with murderous intent –

shared intelligence
about feeding grounds,
comings and goings

and timing of raids
from nearby nests;
family and friends

await news broken
like fresh-baked bread –
the agenda for the day.

Paul Waring

First published by Rat’s Ass Review, 2017

Paul Waring’s poems have been published in a number of journals, anthologies and online magazines. He was awarded second place in the 2019 Yaffle Prize and commended in the Welshpool Poetry Competition. ‘Quotidian’, his debut pamphlet, is published by Yaffle Press. His WordPress site is https://waringwords.blog and he tweets at @drpaulwaring

Photo credit @hannes_wolf at http://www.unsplash.com

Lyngbakr

An Icelander, eight centuries past, wrote of a sea beast so vast
that heather, perhaps even trees, took root across its back –
looming above the Arctic waters it could be perilously
mistaken for an island

In northern Botswana the stark rise and fall of Sable Hill breaks
like a whale’s back above the eternally flat and wide Kalahari
the bone-dry spring denudes its pelt of Appleleaf and Acacia,
giving it a moth-eaten air

Sable lies in wait, at the shallow edge of a landlocked fossil sea
whose waves, now long gone, once scoured its craggy flanks
and rolled the rocky parings smooth, then buried them
as huge shoals of pebbles

Every century slides onwards slowly for the immense Lyngbakr,
with its salt-rimed, barnacle-blind eyes below the surface
it is unaware that the sun has stolen the water, and the wind
has replaced it with sand

But, on a night when the sheet metal moon shudders up high
and turns the flatlands to steel, Sable is slick and sleek again
and it recalls the endless mineral cold of the Greenland Sea
and why it had to leave

Dominic Weston

First published in Skylight 47

Dominic Weston produces wildlife programmes, runs over hills and writes poetry. His work can often be about family, the natural world, or both – frequently undercut by a slick of darkness. Form and pattern dictate the work on the page, but he has also gone off piste into Poetry Film. He tweets @Limescale

http://www.dominic@flipflopfilms.com

Photo credit @anniespratt at http://www.unsplash.com

On Walking to Fleet Church

We trod the ancient coastal path
warm-baked on an April Sunday.
Felt the thud of our feet lay down
the desk-bound work of a digital week.
Swung the wind-worn kissing gate,
The Fleet stretched out its long sand arm,
held us close in the glistening heat.

Oystercatchers, egrets and terns
stalked the Chesil Beach lagoon
while we turned driftwood, shells and thoughts.
In peace, we walked to the small stone church,
ushered in by field-spun larks; the grassland
laced with fritillaries and bees.
We communed in the blessing of this day,
exhaled our praise into the breeze.

Tee Francis

On Walking to Fleet Church was first published in The Curlew 2017

Tee Francis lives in Dorset and performs her poetry in the South West. Her pamphlet, Sherbet Lemons, was published in 2019. She holds an MSc in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes and is interested in the use of poetry and journaling to overcome procrastination and to navigate complex PTSD.

Website: feelwrite.co.uk
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/feelwriteUK/ She tweets @TeeFrancisPoet

Photo credit: the author

Sea Dreams

‘Describe it to me,’ the therapist says.
She leans back against the cool black leather and closes her eyes.
‘It’s always the same,’ she says. ‘There’s a long, flat beach. Sand the palest gold you could imagine. As far as you can see, no-one. Not a soul. The sea is so far out it would take minutes to walk to the edge.’ She opens her eyes and begins to sit up. ‘It’s ridiculous. I live in Nebraska, about as far from the sea as you could get. I’ve not seen the ocean since I was a child.’
The therapist shakes his head and motions her to lay back.
‘Your dream,’ he says. ‘The beach.’ She closes her eyes again.
‘I have a towel. A round one; always a round towel. I lay it on the sand where I know the tide will turn. I know the exact spot. I relax on the towel and wait for the waves to creep towards me, knowing that just as they reach my feet the tide will turn. Every time it does. But sometimes, once or twice a month, this man appears.’ She stops and draws a deep breath. The room is silent apart from the rhythm of raindrops against the window.
‘Describe him,’ the therapist says.
‘He is tall and fair. It’s the wrong sort of beach, but he looks like a surfer, tanned and athletic. There is a fluid balance to his movements.’
‘Do you know him?’ the therapist asks.
‘No. Never seen him before.’ Her lie is emphatic, perhaps a little too quick. Her lids are still closed and she does not see the therapist raise an eyebrow. ‘He is a little too perfect, you know? Flawless. Like someone from a book, or a model from a fashion shoot. He smiles but just as I think he might speak he turns and grabs the waves, actually grabs them, like they’re linen sheets. He runs towards the dunes, pulling the waves behind him, covering me in the sea.’ She stops abruptly. The rain continues to patter against the windowpane.
‘Does it frighten you?’ the therapist asks.
‘No. I feel immense calm. The sea is warm and I can breathe, even though I’m covered in water. I can see tiny fish darting between fronds of seaweed, and there are pearly shells underfoot. But the man has gone and I need to find him. That’s when I wake up.’ She opens her eyes. The clock on the mantelpiece shows her hour is nearly up. The therapist suggests some exercises she might consider and reminds her to write up her dream diary.
‘We’ll talk some more next week,’ he says, watching her go.
As she leaves the therapist spots the shimmer of sand beside the chair, the lustre of small pearlescent shells crushed beneath her shoes. And without needing to slip his hand into his jacket pocket, he knows he will find a single mermaid’s purse, pale and translucent, its tendrils still soft and damp.

Angi Holden

First published by Visual Verse ~ https://visualverse.org/submissions/sea-dreams/

Angi Holden’s poetry and short-fictions explore the environment, family history and personal experience. Her pamphlet Spools of Thread won the Mother’s Milk Pamphlet Prize. Her short story Painting Stones for Virginia was a 2018 Cheshire Prize for Literature prize winner. Her work is currently shortlisted for the Lichfield Cathedral Prize. She tweets @josephsyard

Photo credit @jfelise at http://www.unsplash.com