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,
At Newgrange
We carry our dead with us:
I my mother in spinal notches,
buttocks’ knots, father
in the gristle-power of wings,
Puffins, Isle of Staffa
Hardly time to tune up among
the tussocks, thrift and tormentil
above the giant’s basalt hexagons
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,