Poetry
By Lisa Blower
So perhaps there is something about the sky right now. In this time that is no longer day but not quite the night - this in-between-ness of two separate times that have too much definition.
By Roslyn Weaver
Sunrise. It is the time of the magpies, their self-appointed duty to wake us, black-masked and ominous, with skeletal rattles as they laugh the day into being.
By Taylor Hood
Thus, before the curtain of night falls or the sky fully brightens, twilight reveals a world that exists independent of our will, yet we’re still privy to its beauty, blessed even.
By Adam Milne
It is before dawn, blue hour. Thousands upon thousands of bluebells carpet the slopes and valley floor. Thickets of golden yellow gorse sit amongst the sea of blue, and their sweet scent of coconut rides the morning's gentle breeze.
By Fiona Jones
Summer dusk, and later than intended. I walk fast, pursuing the gentle endorphin thrill of physical exercise, enjoying the loneliness of late evening, hoping to attain my chosen distance before full darkness descends.
Prose
By Laura Lloyd
Everywhere I go, whenever I see an estate or area of red brick housing, I’ll forever associate it with deprivation of some kind. A harsh sentiment perhaps yet there is always a fondness in its familiarity.
By Lisa Blower
So perhaps there is something about the sky right now. In this time that is no longer day but not quite the night - this in-between-ness of two separate times that have too much definition.
By Roslyn Weaver
Sunrise. It is the time of the magpies, their self-appointed duty to wake us, black-masked and ominous, with skeletal rattles as they laugh the day into being.
By Taylor Hood
Thus, before the curtain of night falls or the sky fully brightens, twilight reveals a world that exists independent of our will, yet we’re still privy to its beauty, blessed even.
By Adam Milne
It is before dawn, blue hour. Thousands upon thousands of bluebells carpet the slopes and valley floor. Thickets of golden yellow gorse sit amongst the sea of blue, and their sweet scent of coconut rides the morning's gentle breeze.
By Fiona Jones
Summer dusk, and later than intended. I walk fast, pursuing the gentle endorphin thrill of physical exercise, enjoying the loneliness of late evening, hoping to attain my chosen distance before full darkness descends.
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 Abhishek Udaykumar
Litha cried when the gardener trimmed the mango tree. She sat in the kitchen with her ginger drink staring vacantly through the back window. It had been a month since the bushfire and hrubs had begun to sprout, growing urgently in the fragmented manner that life had assumed since the start of summer.
By Becca Grady
Wind and water have whittled hoodoos and buttes over time, drawing and sculpting with sandstone, mudstone, volcanic ash, and shale. This geological strata is on display for miles. Somewhere along these highways between Wyoming and Montana the stories I tell myself begin to shift: I start paying attention.
By Andrew Edgeworth
The divide still stands, the border remains intact between Withington and Didsbury. But the margins have shifted. It is now a hinterland of socio-economic divide, a chasm of circumstance.
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
By Laura Lloyd
Everywhere I go, whenever I see an estate or area of red brick housing, I’ll forever associate it with deprivation of some kind. A harsh sentiment perhaps yet there is always a fondness in its familiarity.