Issue 10

Winter 2014



Dusk; the Atlantic wind rattles the black lattice
of the trees. Beech leaves chase their brown-paper
stalks and rise to describe a vortex, tussled

by the playful violence of unseen paws. Flux
and vexation: there is no open road ahead,
only corners, feints, frustrations yielding

to no clever strategy; all I have is baffled
stubbornness, pushing, pushing, battered
by the barging gusts of wet November air.

And somewhere out there, slowly lost to light
I hear a shifting murmur, turning and changing –
distant bells or calling voices, windblown,

falling scattered through the streets and squares
like evening colours on broken water. In the sky
a line of fire flares, then sinks beyond my sight.


Joe Evans