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 

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 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.