Matthew Friday




Butterfly Landing

and she panics away.
Sit still. So.
Be a karst hill,
unmoving time
and wait
for her panting wings
to slow, slow.
This is a special trust
or she mistakes your
leg for a flower.
Either way,
you are blessed
by this silken
gift. Her probing
piece kisses
you a thousand
thanks. She is so
delicate, a single
word could snap
up the orange bands
on her velvet brown
wings and
her flying back
into the breath
of the wind.




Matthew Friday is a writer, professional storyteller and primary school teacher. By all means check out the results

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Rob Yates



Encountered a man

‘And I, too, used to carve and serve up
great failures for myself
in youth,’
said the old flapping man.
I met him on a bus
throttling ourselves south to stay warm.
I had bundled sorrowfully
into a corner hoping for silence and majesty
when this tale-teller
accosted me in peace and forced my ears,
‘I, too, have gazed at that frost…’
(indeed, it was cold on the fields)
‘… and shuddered.’
I dozed amidst his talk,
he cawed like all men do,
I was just a tired old bird like him,
dozed and clucked and dozed.




Rob Yates is moving through South-East Asia trying to make his money stretch. He has just finished a first novel, entitled Trumbling Grandsire.

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Nadia Kingsley





You’d have thought
that my journeying

from Telford to London
would be enough time

to read these poems
to darn a jumper

to stare out the window; but
between the announcements

the ticket inspection
the dark-light of tunnels

the loud conversations
the fast-moving humans

our slowing at stations;
all I have managed

is a few short emails, and to watch a man with thick black moustache:
A luggage-rack reflection, he eases off a tinfoilcover, spoons,

with love, the cherry yoghurt, to his lips,
avoiding drips on to suit,

pale pink shirt and, instead of a tie, a thing
whose name escapes me but it hangs like a ribbon, holding his identity.

Once scraped clean, pot put away in Tupperware, tangerine untouched.
It strikes me, later, at a party, where a man is talking lanyards; that

perhaps too, I was watched – with tilted head, and upturned eyes; and
how the train had wrapped us all, like segments in an unpeeled orange.




Nadia Kingsley is a poet and publisher. She is currently collaborating on an Arts Council England funded performance : e-x-p-a-n-d-i-n-g THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE IN 45 MINUTES, in a mobile planetarium dome.

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Roy Moller




And him with his track record -
he should have known to leave school left,
not tag back to the party
on third-hand word of hi-jinks,

an ex-prefect break-in
unlocking the Botanics
for hothouse booze and maybe things
might get a little steamy.

Fully-clothed, he tumbles past
lily pads and sabulous fish;
the fearty swimmer selected
for propelling off the edge.


He should have understood himself
as marked for special treatment
the day they pissed his pacamac
down the poolside toilet.


The awkward lad’s foreign name
had earned him a punch in the belly
as Swimming followed History,
Great War reverberations:

Your granddad kilt my granddad.
But the name is Danish. And why
did you group-gob on my blazer?
They tellt you were adopted.




Edinburgh-born Roy Moller lives in Dunbar, with his wife and son  He is working on his first collection, Imports, to be published by Appletree Writers in December.   Twitter: @RoysterMoller

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Neil Fawcett





I know about stars.
They’re far away
have nocturnal habits
and hide from the day,

and when I lie
hair rasping a pillow of sand
fingers sieving cool grains,
shrinking clumps in each hand,

I can watch them for hours.
Those that drop from black cliffs
falling into forever.
Those that glide over our organic blip

and those that sit still
years above the sky.

Fingers sieving cool sand
the insatiable wet of the world close by.




Neil Fawcett lives in Stockport and writes poems in a scruffy shed at the bottom of his garden. When not in Stockport you’ll find him in Greece, just wandering about.

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