Previous contributions from:

Alison Leonard

Beside the Altar

Went on my own to dancing – Martin’s back was stiff,
he’d been shifting his dead father’s blacksmith’s stuff –
and as soon as the music reached me through the door
I was in rhythm. Taff the hairy punk poet was leading,

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At Newgrange

We carry our dead with us:
I my mother in spinal notches,
buttocks’ knots, father
in the gristle-power of wings,

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Puffins, Isle of Staffa

Hardly time to tune up among
the tussocks, thrift and tormentil
above the giant’s basalt hexagons

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The day after the bonfire

It is the day after the night and I am raking the ashes
in the circle of trees. Boots on feet, apple branch in hand,
guardedly I poke and stir and lift – and, in each gust of wind,

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