By J.D. Scève He is at my door to collect a debt owed, My obol where patina trespassed over diseased metal. I’d polish it, but the glint from my eyes ceased yesterday, and succumbed to the pupillary void. Ragged birds poise on the weathervane, My feathered witnesses, Oh, how I wish thunder would dethrone them, And tear out that curiosity. He hunches under his smothering cloak, Stench wrings from the folds of the mottled cloth, As he steps over the threshold to my rooms. Flaye

By Caroline Anne Pollard The sky has stolen the sea—thief of its hue. The sea is bacterium blue. The sky turns bitter as sloes. A gaunt tree stands with Wyllie’s spire— its poverty of leaves grieves. Coarse gorse and the bilberry stain of heather. Weather: force-six gales. Black-headed gulls sing as sirens, their wings fluttering like lost sails. Contagious swarms of midges cloud like black pollen of spores. The island weeps a brown burn. This seizure of seawater cannot heal

By Gareth Coombes When I freeze my pre-cooked meals I often think of you Squeezed into a chest freezer And turning very blue.   When I burn the garden waste I often think of you Sat upon a bonfire Until you're cooked right through.   When I dunk my biscuits I often think of you And hold them underwater Until they're out of view!   When I bury my autumn bulbs I often think of you Under the cold brown earth in a mound Totally covered too.   When I hang my washing I often think