By Jane Murray Bird

Nine months since we wassailed

away together toasting forked

branches with the blood of your son,

whichever way the wind falls, 

autumn stalks this eve.

By David Mullin

Remembering the shadow 

of the elm trees &

the trembling light 

you paint the new moon

haloed

By Nicola Healey

When it starts to melt, in the quiet hour,

there is a milkiness 

as though cloudlets lay under a silk screen.

By Andrea Ferrari Kristeller

I don’t want the dark wiping off the golden 

still curling the rim of day 

cloud-coloured bird-flocked 

writing its sky music