Anna Maria Mickiewicz




The Hidden

Once they were hidden
Forest covered the fear
Drowned out the silence…
Darkness stood on the way home
The clock of the heart was beating in seconds

Dash up there quickly, spread the arms
Hair will fall down gently 

Hidden from brightness,
Hidden from fate

It is a dream…

In the London thicket they are still invisible
Yet they feel the power
Hidden in a short smile,
Just for a second.
They fix taps
They drink strong coffee
They don’t have to eat much,
Sometimes only a sandwich.



Anna Maria Mickiewicz ( is a Polish-born poet, writer and editor who writes both in Polish and English. Anna moved to California, and then to London, where she has lived for many years. She edits the annual literary magazine Pamiętnik Literacki (The Literary Memoir), London, and is a member of English Pen. Her first collection was published in 1985. Publications include short stories and essays Okruchy z Okrągłego Stołu (Breadcrumbs from the Round Table) in 2000, Londyńskie bagaże literackie in 2019, and collections Proscenium in 2010, London Manuscript, (Poetry Space, Bristol, 2014) and The Mystery of Time, (Flutter Press, USA 2019.) With Danuta Błaszak she co-editor of Flying Between Words, Contemporary Writers of Poland (Florida: 2015).

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Penny Sharman





I want to be a Nightjar
where language is colour
where my ways of being
cryptic and crepuscular
are accepted like stars in night skies.

I wish I was a Nightjar
could spend my days
hidden in your scrubland,
wait for light to dim,
so that my secret songs
can be heard in twilight.

I dream of being a Nightjar,
to feel my flight and hawking.
I need to hear my churring
know you can hear my song
and find me here, a refugee
on the edge of your lives.



Penny Sharman has a MA in Creative Writing from Edge Hill University. Her pamphlet Fair Ground is published by Yaffle press. Her collection Swim With Me In Deep Water is published by Cerasus poetry. Her books are available to buy from her website:

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J V Birch




Moon daisies

Do you know about the daisies that only open
in moonlight? Have you seen the attic full
of sadness and when the tallest of us fall?

And then the questions to which we answer
I’ve no idea what you’re talking about or
I’m only here cos I was told I could share.

Did you hear about the cat who found its old
tongues? It gave some to me. I stitched them
into a scarf to keep my neck warm in winter.

I don’t know why I can’t dream in colour.
All the things we left unsaid are line-dried
and folded. Tomorrow will give them mouths.



J V Birch lives in Adelaide. Her poems have been published in Australia, the UK, Canada and the US. She has three chapbooks with Ginninderra Press and a full-length collection, more than here, and blogs at

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Lesley Quayle




When people say your skull cracks like an egg,
it doesn’t. Not the Humpty Dumpty fragmentation –
compared to that, it’s unspectacular. A sound
like a dropped watermelon, the fall, the slightly
meaty thud. A possible loss of consciousness,
your vision vague, taut skin split, an unexpected warmth
of blood. The gathering wetness on tentative fingers
now permeating hair and floor. When you close your eyes,
hot sparks confetti the dark behind your lids.
Bone meets stone, in a smash of numbered heartbeats,
a sudden kick of pain that stamps the breath
from your lungs. You’ve forgotten how to move
until deft and gentle hands raise you, nausea gathering
like a landslide. There are no words, but tears as you crumple,
a beacon of relief as he folds you to his chest.
He wants to summon all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
to put you back together – and they can. They will.
So all that remains is a faint bloodstain on the flagged floor.





Lesley Quayle is a widely published, prize-winning poet and an editor and folk/blues singer. Work has appeared in The North, Rialto, Tears in the Fence, Prole, among others. Her latest pamphlet is Black Bicycle published by 4Word.


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