Three Drops from a Cauldron - Issue 22 by Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron Issue 22 / May 2018 Idunn, goddess of Spring

Field lore

My Spear Tree

Last night I became an Emperor Moth

The Hare on the Hill

Unicorn

The Piper of Hamelin

Counterparts

Moonrise

Midsummer Eve

Hare and Cockerel

The Scarlet Mark

Lazarus

Medusa

Ophidian Daughter

The Stone Sleep

Wyrd ways

Iseult Villanelle

The Waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Edge

Getting to the Heart of Strawberry

Mythology

The Laboratory for the Elixir of Love

Tidal blessing

Look to the Lady

Wildwood

Before Sunrise

Devil’s Blog

Woodsorrel Road

Toast

Buttons

The Weak Father and the Bad Mother

Peekaboo Purple

Sprung

Angel’s Cove

Biographical Notes

Previous Publication Credits

Idunn, goddess of Spring it was from my blushing orchard where the fruit swells among the blossoms and there is no word for snow that I was stolen a rapture of wing-beats, hammers on gold I was a spindly lamb in the talons legs whisking a froth in the nothing falling upwards now I am bounded by the glazed white march of mountains frost-forged scree tatters my soles once bared to the humming grass he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want me it is my basket of promises glossy and unbitten that brings the water to his mouth far away, the gods will grow grey without maidenflesh, pippin-pert they thought me only a morsel soon they will wrinkle and know only I can sing the summer songs when the pressed juice is loosed onto the tamed roots in glory and libation only I can lay apart the tender globes in their cupping paper stop the rank brown kiss of cheeks sagging together

they must feel the year dwindling under them I scour the leaden skies for rescue feel my hope shrinking to a gnarled and bitter nut

Kirsten Luckins

Field lore The sky squirms with peewits, collaborating to distract predators from grounded nests. Sailors look to seagulls to predict changes in the weather; inland, gulls warn of storms. These tree pipits are peeping unusually far north; sure sign of climate change. Let all you know trickle from your rucksack like Hansel’s breadcrumbs. Put one foot in front of the other. Feel the stones shift, the camber beneath your boot. Stop, when birds fly so close you can hear the wuppawuppa of wingbeats Let the clouds just be random shapes, providing shade. And that cuckoo, which insists you listen – don’t fret that you cannot spot its perch. In April I open my bill In May I sing night and day In June I change my tune Data chafes like sandals on the first summer day. The old lies are better than Wikipedia.

Hannah Stone

My Spear Tree witches ride this polished barkskin stag beetles skitter across it babies passed through this mother hole rooted in water, air and fire limbs wear helicopters or keys full of samsara that spin down to unlock moist earth dog's mercury wild garlic dog violets coronet, brick, centre-bowed sallow and privet hawk moth haunt these leaves barkskin for spear shaft, axe handle tough hardwood that does not splinter but burns to ward off to charcoal heat

Paul Brookes

Last night I became an Emperor Moth I rode through the liquid night, as a melon-slice moon crested a bank of cloud. Part of the hush and curve of the universe; Pleiades above me a diamond cluster ring. Clothed in starlight, wings powdered, furry belly glossy and plump. Left the moor for a jaunt to the seaside, over towns with flickering lights and strange smells. Saw the sea corrugated by waves, tang of salt quickening my senses. Shimmied and played chase with the ladies, rested with them on marram grass. Birdsong ushered in the return of the sun; drowsy, went home to sleep in the heather. There to wait for my lover; my musk strong, it will draw him from miles. He will come, wings taut with blood. Antennae fresh as ferns. Owl eyes pulsing with life like coals.

Annest Gwilym

The Hare on the Hill The grass is that bit longer. It hides the hare on the hill That I see when I pass at this time of day. But I know that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s watching me, still.

Peter Burrows

Unicorn In those years I was breathless. I was thundered by stars. I was not myth nor even creature but a thrusting through the forest which lived as ever on its nerves. The trees were hung with huntersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; horns and I was always running. The turf under my hooves was the spring of rotten plans, the intentions of the flowers were colourful and cruel. When I was tired of being lure the only way to die was to send myself out as song into the unpromising air. My voice then was the quiet revelation of dust, the note between the fable and the fool. At the end I was flayed and human, my hide worn into shoe leather, my flesh flecked with myrrh.

Susannah Hart

The Piper of Hamelin In the darkening town, he sits on a rooftop and waits. Looking out across the pointed, uneven rooftops silhouetted against the fading sky, he can hear people in the houses and taverns below, frolicking and laughing. He can hear rats gorging in the gutters below that. But he is the only one on the rooftops. He knows precisely how long to wait. When the time is right, just as the sun slips beneath the wooden rafters of the houses, he pulls out a hand-carved pipe from within his dark cloak and brings it to his lips. The first note sounds out, then the second, and then the tune follows. A slow and simple tune, melancholy yet pleasing to the ear. And then there are footsteps in the street below. No longer just children who follow his call; this is the sound of one man’s footsteps, his shoes on the cobbles. And there’s the sound of the laden cart he heaves, its wheels clattering over the stones, rats running out from under it as he goes. He has a bell in one hand and he rings it. ‘Bring out your dead’ Townsfolk appear in doorways to watch, and one or two offer a contribution to his load. These new offerings are added to the pile, and the march continues. The man walks in time to the Piper’s tune, his cart rattling in accompaniment. The contents of his cart jolt continuously as they pass over the cobbles, lurching from side to side at every stone. They dance to the music that the Piper plays. ‘Bring out your dead.’ When the man reaches the mass pit at edge of the town, in which he will dump his day’s findings, the Piper removes the pipe from his lips and places it back in his shroud. And then he is gone; to another rooftop in another town. He has tunes to play all over Europe, to make the people dance.

Rebecca Metcalfe 15

Counterparts She kneels in shade at the rampart’s base, turns a handstone inside the quern, clouts shabby chickens from the grain she’s spilled, lolls on the rampart’s slope, eyelids tight against the sun, plans what to wear to a party tonight, dreams who she’ll pull; hauls wood, combs wool, lulls her child and when her work is done, climbs to the top of the rampart, sits and rests in the sun, stands and stretches, tugs her t-shirt neat, walks to the look-out point and stares down through trees to the port’s half-sunken walls; dreams of the ships on the river, the cloth and wine they bring, the lands they visit: how the people live; the songs they sing.

Sharon Phillips

Moonrise

Ingrid Mayes 17

Midsummer Eve Mad George sits on the British throne this night that never quite gets dark. Women and menfolk gather together, listen for strange silences, whisperings, breaking branches, witchesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; laughter. If I spill salt I always throw a pinch over my left shoulder, allow no may blossom in the home, never set thirteen at table but is that enough? A chough, red-billed, red-legged, its glossy blue-black feathers charred by dusk, perches on a Celtic cross in the graveyard. Our hearts pound as we watch shades of friends and kin knock on the door of the parish church in Carn Brea and enter in order of those who shall die in the next twelve months. Honoured to be Lady of the Flowers I gather good herbs (elder, oak, clover), bad herbs (bramble, ivy, nettle), mumble a Cornish prayer, throw them in the fire which bursts into flame, a benediction to deaden evil spirits and burn all through the night with fires on hills and cairns from Lands End to the border of Devon.

Mary Franklin

Hare and Cockerel Cockerel opens golden beak, crows cock-a-doodle-doo look at me king of the yard herald of the sun. He’s come to conquer darkness, straighten her out, lead her into industry and order. But darkness has her own illumination. Today she’s lagomorph, shape-shifted hare, and birds like him are blood sacrifice. She’ll back-kick box him unwanted mate in March. Tightening leather harness round his neck, she hitches him between her chariot shafts. He runs splay-spurred, coxcomb bobbing, beak wide, black tongue sticking out like a hanged man. She flicks the whip feels rush of air streaming back her ears wriggle of young inside her senses others waiting for their place.

She wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be overrun will twist and jink and corner rise up from burned field.

Ann Cuthbert

*Red jasper intaglio found at Aldborough Roman town (Isurium Brigantum) depicts a cockerel pulling a cart driven by a hare. 20

The Scarlet Mark Though I may close my carmine lashes to forget, you will keep reminding me that I was born aflame and lean to burning. You see cherries blossoming sour between my legs as I rewrite beauty with these dissembling ruby ropes. Crimson fingers coil around my throat, blood-raw ribbons weave down the white skin of my back and never fade.

Zoe Mitchell

Lazarus Body bound in grave clothes, laid out to decompose. Blood-white waxwork, chalk dust for bones. A felled tree, less than a dried-up sponge. In this chrysalis peace, a grey rainbow shone. At last Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d mastered the act of dying. As flies laid eggs in my tear-ducts, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d no more cause for crying.

Richard Biddle

Medusa

Jasmine Renold

Ophidian Daughter The heavens sing (a daughter weeps) for noble (vile) Perseus, son of Zeus Bestowed with the gifts of Olympia, he climbs Gold wing clad feet, from swift Hermes A sword of sun drenched bronze, from crafty Hephaestus Platinum bejeweled shield–mirrored and all seeing–from lawful Athena. Such noble (vile) gifts (sickness) meant for one purpose To slay (murder) vile (noble) Medusa The monster’s cave gapes before him, a blackened maw, swallower of men A tongue of wine water froths forth A throat of crushed stones, encrusted with skulls, all slain heroes (pigs) fallen to the task (we asked not for invaders) A belly (a home) where the monster (mother) coils her serpent (sisters) brood Enough serpent, speak no more (Enough human, your tongue carves out only lies) One cannot drown out the thunderous chorus for heroic Perseus (One will speak for voiceless Medusa) There are no voices for monsters (mothers) only swords to kiss scale (emerald) throats Silence ophidian daughter, stone seductress (Your prose corrupts truth, mine blooms it) When Perseus’s blade sang, embracing Gorgon’s snake entwined necklace 24

Just a wyrm you were, wriggling amidst the azure slush of your birthplace (Just a daughter) A wyrm (Living) Existing (Innocent) Shush now, there is no room for Helenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Bane You lie far from the apple curves of women Not blessed, not welcome within the orchard of femininity (Such narrow mind) The lush branches of beauty are barren with your kind You are discarded, a rotten core Never to be plucked from the soil choked ground Forever ignored (To bask in the underworld) An appropriate fate (The molten scorched hallways of Hades discriminate against no one, poet) Only death can embrace you (And so it will embrace you too) Had you been a true apple (I am what I am) Golden silk skin (As tarnished as your heroes) Not cobalt carmine scale 25

(As brilliant as tanzanite) Beauty to save you, blooming serpent (Beauty to blind you, cock sodden men) Perhaps Perseusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lips, you would have kissed (coal tasting) Rather than the pulping heel of his boot But a glorious marriage (rape) Awaits not the wyrms of the world (There are no tongues for our voices, no muses to sing our poems) Heroes get tales, monsters get swords

Weep now, daughter wyrm Weep tears of stone Rivers of ash The eyes of Medusa rust away Your mother shall encrust no more men with her onyx embrace (But do not all heroes seek immortality?)

Sam Jowett

The Stone Sleep “Even asleep we partake in the becoming of the world” – Czeslaw Milosz, The Magic Mountain.

To escape her gaze, you give yourself to the earth as it whispers sleep, sleep. Sinking into the mossy bed, the grass bends beneath you. Here in a foetal shape, back in the womb, are you breathing? Night folds itself around you, a ghost moth settles onto your cold skin, whispering a lullaby. Others join her, breathing and singing until wing to wing they cover every part of you. In your dreams you try to remember who you were before you closed your eyes. ... always moving aware of the hard edges wanting to be curved bending, breaking small breasts a slightly rounded stomach thin hands skin smooth the colour of olives left in the sun bare feet strong legs brown deep eyes heavy lids shut tight … At dawn a shroud of powdered wings rise up to leave you naked. 27

You see, yet donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see, feel, but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel, still the earth whispers, sleep, sleep. As the light unwraps itself, you go deeper into the stone sleep, into the slumber of the drugged, into the sleep of those who cannot sleep.

Raine Geoghegan

Wyrd ways Inverness Hospital Streets are a map beneath the window where coloured beetles scuttle and turn. On the screen he observes a private interior guides his flexing wand, its one eye illuminates twists and turns through the young man’s gut. He remembers hair-pin bends on the Furka Pass, the Rhone Glacier, the beauty of its blue grotto. He balances evidence, comes to a conclusion.

Clootie Well, Cullodon Woods The sun climbs down above her, hand over fist through laddered branches and rests on water. She breaks its reflection with her son’s torn shirt, ties the rag to dry among young rowan leaves. The trees are all dressed with weathering hopes. She remembers the cauldron of Macbeth’s witches, how his fate was woven into the cloth of time. She rails at destiny, plucks at its threads.

Sheena Clover

Wyrd – Celtic ‘the course of events’ fate or personal destiny Clootie Well – ancient Celtic wishing well where the currency is cloth 29

Iseult Villanelle She breathes in, shuts her eyes, and counts to four. Her clothes are folded on the blushing sand. She breathes out, takes a step towards the shore. She curls her toes in silicone and quartz, smoke-fine grains, the beaches of her motherland. She breathes in, shuts her eyes, and counts to four. The bladder-wrack and flotsam underscore the tide's extent in contoured contraband. She breathes out, takes a step towards the shore. Behind her, a disfigured troubadour. His sandflies turn to samphire in her hand. She breathes in, shuts her eyes, and counts to four. A memory, once hers, of Castledore. A wedding gift: her name, an ampersand... She breathes out, takes a step towards the shore. That name she could have sworn she’d heard before. Trist… Trist… Each wave repeats the last’s command. She breathes in, shuts her eyes, and counts to three and runs and leaps and dives into the sea.

T.L. Evans

The Water’s Edge The old woman crouched where waves met sand, thighs resting on calves, staring outward. Sophie laid out her beach towel thirty yards up the dunes, puzzled that someone so old had clambered down the rocks to reach the beach. Off shore wind this morning, making the waves behave themselves. Wonder how she found this spot, not many people know how to get down here. Shifting patches of early morning sun and cloud mottling the water into the colors of shark skin, which suits my mood. Sophie stood erect without using her hands and stepped toward the beach, sand still cool from the night. She angled down to the surf line on the woman’s right, then walked along the wave edges toward her, letting the woman see her approach. “Mind some company?” The woman contemplated Sophie. “Not in your case. Sit, please.” Sophie jackknifed her legs, her backside settling gently onto the damp sand, salt water seeping into her shorts and underwear. “Aren’t you afraid a rogue wave will wash over you?” The woman shrugged. “Wet will turn into dry. You’re devoted to this beach, aren’t you?” “How did you know? Yes, most days even once or twice a week during the winter. I'm able to think clearly here, or just now to not think about a problem.” The woman scooped a handful of damp sand and let it crumble slowly through her fingers. The action seemed deliberate, ceremonial. “Yes, you come here often. Did you ever wonder why you're so drawn to the sea shore? Why you tolerate hot sand burning your feet, and swimming through other people’s washed off sun tan lotion, and becoming a host for sand fleas, all the while staring at featureless sand and horizons?” Sophie paused. The woman didn’t appear demented, and had asked her question in a tone that looked for a serious answer. 31

“I don’t know, maybe to be with friends, get a tan, go for a swim?” The woman gave a half smile. “And yet you always come here alone. You’re drawn here, lemming like, because it’s one of few places you haven't debased into a servitude for men. The cities of course, the fields forced to grow a single plant, even the forests are planted and pruned. “But you’re partly right, Sophie. People come to the junction of air and water and sand to play. And they leave without realizing that they treasure the experience because they can’t distort this place into a human concoction. That no matter how hard they yell or dig or thrash, sand and water and air fill in and remain unaltered.” The woman’s daft, but intriguing. “I never thought of it that way. I do like the beach more when it’s empty of other people. Present company excepted.” The woman gestured and the nearest wave seemed to skitter. “The water and sand are in their nature formless, the shattered bones of mountains and living things, the liquid essence of all that has lived, leached from the ground and tumbled down into the sea. We sit at a featureless cemetery that will germinate life and structure.” Whoa. Pull her back before she tries to bury me in that cemetery. “That’s more profound than I can handle. Coming to the shore just keeps me somehow at peace.” “But you’re not at peace any more, are you? This has become merely your refuge. You’re not meditating, you’re hiding.” She’s an intrusive little driftwood witch, isn’t she? “Just some man trouble I’m trying to work out.” The woman’s disheveled hair was the color of the shell shards that littered the beach. She stared at the water as she spoke. “You visit this beach as a devout woman attends services, without expectation or relief. You have asked for nothing, and have given silent praise. I give you in return these small answers. He has not one other woman but two. He services you from indolence and need. You stay with him because you have falsified your memories... Loneliness is purer than anguish, Sophie, and more fulfilling. Throw him out.” 32

“That's not… How dare you… How did you know my name?” Sophie jumped up and stiff-strode back up the dune to her towel, thoughts so churning that she lost the rhythm of her walking. When she turned around, the woman was missing, neither along the beach nor in the water. She was alone, and it felt right.

Ed Ahern

Getting to the Heart of Strawberry

Karen Little 34

Mythology Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m learning that Prometheus suffered not because he granted a secret gift, but because he watched man and his suffering and couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sit and keep snapping his fingers to create a flame on the tip of his thumb after he ran out of cigarettes. The first time I ate a strawberry my hands grew thrice as big. The last time I held a lover was between the bird-quiet hours of a July morning and the sun-god tripping over the celestial ocean as the winter scratched her head. I have never felt comfortable in a bed unless there is someone there to hold or to bend me over. The first time I kissed another boy, I flutter-shut my eyes and imagined warmth and stubble. When I woke up, I lay on a dune of sand. I am learning the world is everything you can hold, and that the universe is everything not yet touched by hands.

Samuel J Fox

The Laboratory for the Elixir of Love Should you look for me, I’m at Callanish, encircled by its standing stones, keeping guard. I’ve swallowed a star, drunk in a blue moon. My workbench is ancient oak, etched with hieroglyphs. scattered with pomegranate seed, apple filings, my microscope, petri dishes and well-worn gloves. This air is infused with powder, the powdery warm juicy scent of the fruit of love. I’m implanting its alphabet into our gene sequence, a cryptogram bacterium, feat of wild imaginings.

Maggie Mackay

Tidal blessing O be air haze azure silver seafoam tideglow moonstone pearlgleam ultramarine

Sharon Phillips

Look to the Lady “Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.” --- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

When summer is such a toothless lie that even the sunlight shivers, and dragonflies are caught in flight by the ice of reaching rivers, look to the lady you left behind with less care than you’d give a stranger. Look to the lady of snow shroud July; a witch is quick to anger.

Kelli Simpson

Wildwood A walk in the woods doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come without a certain amount of baggage. We all carry those stories, the ones with witches and confectionery cottages, teddy bears on picnics, Red Riding Hood on errands, and grandmamas, and wolves, and woodchoppers. Snow White brambled and briared, awaiting a princely kiss. They lie low in our bosky memory, they are the unseen eyes, the creeping feet, the cracking twig. I knew those tales when I was a kid, when there were no woods only streets and lampposts. I dreamed forests from the Enid Blyton safety of home. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easier to dream a wood than enter one, that can be dangerous. They say at Epping there are gangsters clothed in designer concrete suits. All of them missing among leaves and fairy encampments, lost to innocent Sunday picnics, and daylight excursions with dogs. You must not go to the wood at night.

Marilyn Francis

Before Sunrise We carry a cross inside our heart to relieve our necks from dancing and singing to death, to relieve our heads from drinking too much blood to stupor like vampires, or to forget Noah’s flood where vanity became the only purity for worshiping death and beginning a new road to sunrise. We hide a cross in our heart to believe we’re gods who can drown in too much blood from liquor leading to stupor to gaze at our vampire faces in the mirror running away from sunrise or from staggering here and there to wet our starving muscles with music that our dying and ageing nerves knows how to strike when drunk and sober to walk our tired bodies up the cardinals of revivals with open canals to Purity. Pharmacists carry drugs in their head to invite diseases, Doctors carry diseases in their head to invite cures, teachers carry education in their head to invite excellence, and we all carry the opposite of everything, of every road. I’m a frame hanged on the chambers of fire, I’m a frame that cannot be called like names, a frame that cannot be carved by names that can be spelled, a name that cannot be given by any parent, a flame that cannot be touched by any darkness, a frame carrying and hiding the four cardinals of beauty. I’m the world, the word that your ignorant wife has been biting to pronounce as darling, honey, sweet pie, circle, sphere or solution. We all lead to four dimensions,corners,points and trajectories like rectangles whose diagonal is a door to history, a name, a person, a frame, a flame, a body, a flesh or a being. You read N,S,W and E that many has confused as North,South,West and East. You cannot carry north and set forth, carry south and sing with your mouth, carry west and hide Kanye West in a nest or carry the East with your past.

Your past has no cardinal, has no revival, has no canal that can be followed to make home for a human being. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a name holding North, a spirit holding South, a wind holding West and the experience holding East from fallen into nights. You rise before sunrise holding N, S, W and E at the coordinates, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not normal at all.

Paul Oluwafemi David

Devil’s Blog I’m changing my name, well names, really. When you’ve had the same ones for millennia you need to take a look at your image. As a Higher Being, THE Higher Being as far as Hell’s concerned, my name is my title. I won’t say I rejoice in the name of Lucifer, too biblical an expression that. Christian name! He’s so damn pervasive slips in everywhere. The other side are so into ownership. I’m a free spirit. People have to commit to me, of course. I find a bit of temptation, a bit of bribery and corruption, and they’re mine. Youth, beauty, gold they sell their souls every time. It’s all in the literature. Don’t believe those blues songs about fiddlers at crossroads outplaying me. That’s propaganda from the Bible belt.

Beelzebub, that’ll have to go. A bit of a mouthful and so hard to spell. Satan, have to keep that one. Too many satanists to reckon with. They can get uppity and it takes humans ages to change names now deed polls, committees, small print. Like watching blood dry. Nothing’s simple any more. Going with Satan, Prince of Darkness, so profile updated, Twitter, Facebook, I go viral.

Gene Groves 42

Woodsorrel Road Our lot were all at Bishop’s Milner school so we had no choice really, we had to go. Still, the Pentecost fete was pretty cool. We had to sing loads of psalms and the first years had their first communion in the morning, but after that they had rides and music and they roasted a pig. “How many pieces, bab?” Nan asked. “One please, Nan”. Nan never missed these things. She played organ in the church sometimes. And sometimes Father Stephen let her sing an old Welsh Hymn. Ni chaiff dim amharu'th gyntun Ni wna undyn â thi gam. When Mom married Dad she moved from Woodsorrel Road to Old Park Road. Nan was happy about that. Most families are like that round here. None of us move far. Nan didn’t like how they opened their shop on a sunday, especially at Whitsun. But she didn’t judge. I scoffed the hot pork cob down and ran off to the Astroturf. I was always alright upfront. I scored three with my head - I normally did, I was taller than the rest and no one was a goalkeeper except for Burroughs and he was a prick, he was one of those man-child sorts who started shaving when they were eleven and had shoulders like most of the Dads, he played for Stourbridge Town now. He had funny eyes, like he was tired and angry and sad and scared. Everyone knew Burroughs. He was the second name you learned at school. Most people at least knew someone who’d taken grief from him. When Alvan moved to the Wrenner Burroughs spent the first three weeks robbing his dinner money. Me and Nick put a stop to that. All the parents were canting and eating cake and the rides were playing that jingle-jangle music and the younguns were doing cartwheels and pretending to be Ironman or Captain America and the older kids were being weird or hard or unseen and we were shouting One-two! Cross! Hand ball! A group of six or seven men stood, looking in, whispering in a strange language by the gates. Then I saw her. Well, I heard her. Over by Nan and Father Stephen was this girl. More than a girl. I’d seen her about but not seen-seen her before. Pale. Small. Brown bobbed hair. Brown eyes. She stood in front of the grown-ups, hands behind her 43

back. Her summer dress all white and creased. I noticed that. The creases. What girl was this? I heard her. We all did. We stopped. “Guide me o thou great redeemer!” She was soft and slow and she made me think of winter. I walked over to Nan. “Bread of Heaven, Bread of Heaven, feed me til I want no more!” I was out of breath from the footie and the pork had made me a sick in my mouth. Stunned and hot and cramped and dizzy. I stood next to Nan and watched her. Her eyes met mine and she looked down and I looked away and I think we both half-smiled. Nan joined in the second verse. “Agor y ffynhonnau melus”. Two tongues tempering the pentecost fete. I traced the outline of her arm, waist, legs down to two tiny feet white socked in filthy shoes. Filthy shoes. What girl is this? Stomach empty, gums leaking. Sweet-bitter saliva seeping around cheeks. I couldn’t help smile. She was snow-skinned with wide, wild eyes - deep brown. Her dark hair, matted and windswept. What girl is this? I stood stunned. We all clapped when she stopped. “What a beautiful song,” Father Stephen said. “And an even more beautiful voice, Olwen”. Olwen! What girl is this? I didn’t want to look up again. Nan placed her bony fingers on my shoulder and pinched. I’d never seen her smile so wide. Little by little the sounds started up around me again. Football shouts, grown-up chatter, the clink-clank of rides and the jangle of coins. I looked at Olwen and then away and then at Nan and I wanted to go home and I wanted to say something and maybe I’d show her Green Pool and where the newts and frogs had started to spawn but not that, no, maybe we could go to the baths or something and I had to leave soon and I heard a goal scored at the other end so they might need me back. I felt sick and full and sort of sleepy - that sharp cuckoo bread taste - and I felt that feeling like you should probably sit down to hide it. The twinge. The growth. And she sort of smiled. I’m sure she did. 44

“Live for beer! Live for beer! Drink and Drink until you drop!” Burroughs had started up a few feet away. I went red immediately. The sickness left me. The twinge. The oddness. I was clear. Raged. I couldn’t help myself. I turned away from Nan and Olwen. Took three strides towards him and hit him. I hit him like Dad showed me - two fists into the body, one on the belly and one on the V of his ribs. He choked. Fell back. Hit the deck. Within seconds Nan had slapped me around the back of the head. Her bony fingers clipped the top of my ear. She marched me back to Woodsorrel Road. “You’re not singing anymore!” Sometimes I still see the look on Olwen’s face as Nan led me away. Those wide eyes squinted. Her brow furrowed. Eyebrows curled. Pink lips pursed. It’s blurred. I can’t see if it’s a smirk or a frown. I still taste that Cuckoo Bread sharpness too.

R.M. Francis

Toast In every household kitchen sits the humble toast machine, A fundamental part of any culinary scene. Ostensibly an old device for toasting breakfast bread; You'd never think it could be used to chatter with the dead. Yet thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the tool the psychic friends of Odin utilise, To contact those whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve passed on subsequent to their demise. This secret circle meet on every other Tuesday night, To chant and dance in kitchens under eerie candlelight. Then sitting round the table dressed in ancient Nordic gear, One hand upon the toaster, begging Odin to appear, They channel spectral energy emitted by each ghost, Through those electric filaments more widely used for toast.

Jonathan Humble

Buttons Sure I’m pleased for Cinders. Why wouldn’t I be? Thing is, she’s always been the one for me. When the royal footman walked up our path it was the end of our days by the hearth; she’d dance with a Prince and forget about me, sweeping ash, cleaning boots, making the tea. The fairy godmother got on my wick Four rats and a pumpkin, boy. Make it quick. How she made that golden gown’s a mystery but one wave of that wand - I was history. All night I heard the music from the ball, Cinders flew in, dropped one shoe in the hall, fell into bed to dream of Prince Charming. Though she was back in rags in the morning, she was in another world, hardly spoke. I tried to make her laugh, forget the bloke. Meanwhile her sisters were doubly mean, took it out on her as the prince wasn’t keen. I dried her tears, knew she’d never be mine; her prince would come. Just a matter of time.

Carole Bromley

The Weak Father and the Bad Mother It begins like Hansel and Gretel with a raging, love-starved mother who sees a rival, wants her gone, while the father fails to defend her, disappears into himselfâ&#x20AC;Ś now, lost in life, she comfort-eats, binges on every gingerbread house, keeps falling for hungry witches who relish her soft centre, little brothers too small to save her.

Jean Morris

*Title and inspiration from the Hansel and Gretel picture book https://www.stjudesprints.co.uk/products/hansel-gretel-clive-hicks-jenkins (Random Spectacular, 2016) by Welsh artist Clive Hicks-Jenkins.

Peekaboo Purple

Ingrid Mayes 49

Sprung The shards of Winter drip From thawing boughs, Gathering in glacial pools On the forest floor. A breath of warmth Shakes awake nascent leaves: The nourishing yawn Of the Maiden As she shrugs off her sleep. Misty exhalations recede And Spring dares to peek From behind bare skeleton branches And waits To transform.

Danielle Matthews

Angel’s Cove Without a pre-set destination, I escaped from the city and drove down the highway. Sitting behind the wheel for hours, my hopes of finding a place that might inspire me had almost diminished. I took the next exit and turned into a country road. Cruising slowly on the scenic route, I came across a blue board that said Angel’s Cove. Turning right, I followed the winding path that took me up the hills and down them, on the other side. A bird’s eye view of a village appeared in the distance. A rivulet shining like a silver beam ran through the middle of the settlement, all the way to the sea. Idyllic. I parked the car and walked along the canal. Charming two-story buildings and cottages with thatched roofs and small gardens. Multicoloured blooms cascaded down their windows and low fences, filling the air with exotic aromas. Everyone on the street smiled and said, “Good Evening”. I stopped in front of a house with a sign, Rooms to Let and rang the bell at the reception. A thin old lady greeted me and took me upstairs. The inviting fragrance of a fresh sea breeze filled my nostrils as I stepped into the guest suite. Crisp white sheets on the bed, a small wooden wardrobe and a high-back chair upholstered in blue and white fabric with a seashell theme. The old lady with violet eyes and silver-grey hair recommended a fish restaurant and said, “Say Rona sent me.” On the way to the seaside, I crossed a dainty hardwood bridge, curving over the canal, and entered the restaurant, Marvin’s Wharf. A handsome blond man with golden streaks in his hair greeted me and led me to a table. I looked into his ocean-blue eyes and said, “Thank you, I’m Doris. Rona sent me.” “Hi, I’m Marvin.” I sampled the local white wine, dined on oysters and sea bass while watching the view of the bay. Tired from the long drive, I decided to have an early night. When I asked for the bill, Marvin said, “I’ll add it to 51

Rona’s account. Maybe you’d like to try the beach here, sometime. We’re open all day, for drinks and snacks.” Back in my room, I slipped between the white sheets as a cool ocean breeze flowed in through the open window. Muted sounds seemed like a lullaby. For the first time in days I had an undisturbed sleep. My complexion soft and glowing after a shower with kelp soap, I gazed outside. A cloudless, cerulean sky and a glorious sun. I checked my mobile. No signal. I grabbed my bag, went downstairs. Rona greeted me. “Good morning, hope you slept well.” “I feel brand new. Everything carries the scents of the sea.” “We’re sea people. I’m afraid you won't find much here except seafood.” “I don’t mind, I love it.” “Have a great day.” I had breakfast at Marvin’s and settled on a deckchair under a parasol on the beach. After reading for an hour, I walked along the edge of the sea. The powdery white sand seemed to stretch forever. I swam in the blue waters to my heart’s delight. By the time I returned to the restaurant for a snack, Marvin had come back from the sea with a fresh catch. Over calamari and beer, we chatted. He invited me to his fishing boat the following morning. Being a sea and boat person, I accepted, besides who could refuse this man with golden skin and striking eyes? On my first day in the village, something had caught my attention. Everyone I had seen had blue eyes and fair hair, except the elderly with silver streaks. Late that night, looking through my window, I saw a group of locals, with the children, heading to the sea. I met Marvin at the wharf and we sailed into the open waters. I watched him prepare a fisherman’s breakfast, freshly grilled and fried seafood served on paper. When I asked him about the people last night, he said, “We take our nourishment from the sea.” “Is that why you all have blue eyes?” “Probably.” 52

“You’re all blond, too. You must come from the same background.” “Legend says we date back to Atlantis, but you never know.” “My name means the sea.” “So does mine and everyone in the village.” “But I have dark eyes.” “Dark eyes, we never see them here.” I spent the rest of the week on the beach, going for walks, swimming and eating seafood at Marvin’s. My mobile never had a signal, but I didn’t mind. He took me on his boat a couple more times and on the last day, he held my hand and kissed me. I tasted his salty skin on my lips and ran my fingers through his corn silk hair. “I wish I could stay, but I must go. Perhaps, I’ll come back.” “I wish that, too. I’ll miss your dark eyes.” I left the village with a sad heart and drove back to the chaotic city. Each day at the office, I dreamt of Angel’s Cove and Marvin. At the weekend, I decided to return to my heaven. Taking the exit to the country road, I continued, watching out for the blue board. Though I went all the way to the end of the road, to my despair, there was no sign, nor a turn. At Mermaid’s Bay, I asked for directions to Angel’s Cove. No one had heard of the name. I stayed at the village that night, frustrated, and planned to explore the road again early in the morning. The next day, I drove slowly up and down the road several times. To my distress, the blue sign did not exist. Where had I been? Was it a dream? Back in the city, I searched the name on maps and travel directories. Nothing. I checked my credit card bill. No charge. Although Angel’s Cove did not seem to exist in reality, it still remained in my heart, together with the sea people.

Sebnem E. Sanders

Biographical Notes Artists Dru Marland is an illustrator and poet who lives and works on the Kennet and Avon Canal, which is a very good place to be if you like wildlife. She recently published Drawn Chorus, an illustrated alphabet of birds. Ingrid Mayes was born in Kent and relocated to Fife, Scotland in 2007. She is a self-taught Artist beginning her career in Art specialising mostly in animal portraits but enjoys working with many other subjects and mediums. Her love of bright colours and quirky little villages is evident in her work. After moving to Scotland, Ingrid found inspiration in the many beautiful fishing villages & harbours around the Scottish coast and spends much of her free time on the beaches of Fife & Lothian hunting for driftwood and other treasures that wash up on the sand & rocks. These finds are taken back to the Studio to be reborn as artworks reflecting the coast and the traditional coastal villages of Scotland. Further information on Ingridâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work can be found at www.ingridimart.weebly.com. Most of Jasmine Renoldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work is made from found objects and wire. She loves wire for its malleability and resistance. Sometimes it has a mind of its own and wants to go in a different direction. Jasmine likes double meanings, so many of the titles of her sculptures are a play on words, sort of 3D conundrums. The themes of flight, freedom, constraint and being stuck or trapped are evident throughout her work. Sometimes there is a sense of how we restrain ourselves from being free. Karen Little trained as a dancer and fine artist. She has performed and exhibited internationally, and is widely published as a poet.

Writers Kirsten Luckins is a Teesside poet who writes for page and performance. Her first solo spoken word theatre show was nominated for a Saboteur Award, while her second show accompanied her collection from Burning Eye Books. She has been published in several magazines, including Magma, The Interpreter's House, and Riggwelter. 54

She blogs at kirstenluckins.wordpress.com, and experiments with found poetry on Instagram as @imelda_says Hannah Stone has been published in numerous journals including Prole, Envoi, Lakeview International Journal, The North, Frogmore Papers, Snakeskin, and in various anthologies. She has two collections: Lodestone (2016) and Missing Miles (2017). She convenes the poets/composers forum for the Leeds Lieder Festival and was a co-editor for the poetry ezine Algebra of Owls. A Londoner, she has lived in Leeds for decades. Paul Brookes is a shop asst. Lives in a cat house full of teddy bears. His chapbooks are The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Forthcoming Stubborn Sod, illustrated by Marcel Herms (Alien Buddha Press). Annest Gwilym lives in North Wales, near the Snowdonia National Park. Her work has been widely published in literary journals and anthologies. She is the editor of Nine Muses Poetry. Her first pamphlet of poetry, titled Surfacing, is published by Lapwing Poetry. Peter Burrows is a librarian in the North West of England. His poems have appeared in The North, The Interpreterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House, The Frogmore Papers, The Cannonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Mouth, South, Cake, Southlight, Orbis, Reach Poetry, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Dreamcatcher, The Eildon Tree, The Dawn Treader and Riggwelter Press. Susannah Hart is a London-based poet who is on the board of Magma and is the co-editor of Magma 70, The Europe Issue. She also works as a brand consultant. Her poetry has been widely published in magazines and online, and her first collection Out of True is due to be published by Live Canon later this year. Rebecca Metcalfe is a 22-year-old writer and student from Essex, UK. She is currently studying for an MA in Victorian Literature at the University of Liverpool and when not studying, working or swimming writes her own fiction, and for a university magazine. Her fiction has previously been 55

published in Spelk, Foxglove Journal, The Electric Reads Young Writers' Anthology 2017 and Flash: The International Short Story Magazine. Sharon Phillips’ poems have most recently appeared on The Open Mouse, Bluepepper and Amaryllis. In 2017 her poem ‘Tales of Doggerland’ won the Borderlines Poetry Competition and another was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. Sharon Phillips retired from a career in education in 2015. Since then, she has been learning to write poems again, after a break of 40 years. Her poems have most recently appeared on The Open Mouse, Bluepepper, The Poetry Shed and previously in Three Drops from a Cauldron. Mary Franklin’s poems have appeared in numerous publications including Ink Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Message in a Bottle, The Open Mouse and Three Drops from a Cauldron. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. Ann Cuthbert is one of Darlington’s Bennett House Writers as well as a member of the Tees Women Poets with whom she enjoys performing poems for live audiences. Her work has appeared both on-line and in print in publications such as Amaryllis, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Paper Swans Press. Her poetry pamphlet, Watching a Heron with Davey, was published in February 2017 by The Black Light Engine Room Press. Zoe Mitchell is a writer living and working on the South Coast. Her work has been published in a number journals including The London Magazine, The Rialto, and The Moth. She has a particular interest in mythology and is currently working on a creative writing PhD focussed on images of witches in poetry written by women. Richard Biddle has an MA in Performance Writing from Dartington College of Arts. His written poetry and visual poetry has appeared online and in print in numerous publications and anthologies. Most recently with Riggwelter and Burning House Press. He teaches Creative Writing at Chichester College and is a member of Chichester Stanza. He tweets as @littledeaths68 56

Sam Jowett is a genderqueer writer living in Toronto Ontario. You can find their stories and poems in Moonchild Magazine, Memoir Mixtapes, Crabfat Magazine, forthcoming in Room Magazine, and being carried around by summer cicadas. If you enjoyed their work, you can follow them on Twitter @samuel_jowett, or perhaps send them Belgian Waffles, nature's true culinary delight. Raine Geoghegan, MA, lives in West Sussex. Her poems and short narratives have been published both online and in print with Romany Routes Journal; Fair Acre Press, e-book on Maligned Species; Words for the Wild; Ink Pantry; The Travellers Times; Fly on the Wall Poetry. Her poems have been featured in a documentary film, ‘Stories from the Hop Yards.’ She has been profiled on the Romaniarts website as part of International Women’s Day in March and will be reading at the Ledbury Poetry Festival in 2018. Sheena Clover lives in Wivenhoe Essex but has family in Scotland. She works both as an artist and poet and has had work published in several magazines and anthologies. She also exhibits her art in local galleries. Sheena is fascinated by the past and the power of ancient places and beliefs. T.L. Evans lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and three young kids. He writes poems on his iPhone during his commute to and from London. In 2017 he placed third in the National Poetry Competition and second in the Poetry Society's Stanza competition. His first stab at a proper pamphlet, We're All Going, was longlisted in MunsterLit's Fool for Poetry Competition but remains tragically unpublished. He is working on a full length collection. Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had a hundred eighty poems and stories published so far, and three books. His collected fairy and folk tales, The Witch Made Me Do It, a novella The Witches’ Bane, and his collected fantasy stories, Capricious Visions. He works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of five review editors.

Samuel J Fox is a bisexual poet and essayist living in the Southern US. He is poetry editor for Bending Genres and staff reviewer at Five2One. He appears in such places as Vagabond City, Horny Poetry, and Cahoodaloodaling, among many others. He frequents graveyards, coffee shops, and Twitter (@samueljfox). Maggie Mackay, a jazz and whisky loving poet with an MA from Manchester Metropolitan University, has a range of work online and in print, including the recent #MeToo anthology. In 2017 her poems were nominated for The Forward Prize, Best Single Poem and the Pushcart Prize. Her first pamphlet will be published by Picaroon later this year. Kelli Simpson is a mother, poet, and evolving human being living in Norman, Oklahoma. Her poems have recently appeared in Riggwelter and After the Pause. Marilyn Francis lives in the industrial south west of England quite near to Midsomer Norton where murders take place on Saturday nights. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been writing poetry for ages and some of it has been published, though most of it hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. She keeps on keeping on. There was a collection, red silk slippers, published by Circaidy Gregory Press, but that was a while ago. Paul Oluwafemi David is a nigerian who fell in love with poetry watching the beauty of nature,he is a student of professor Wole Soyinka and Ben Okiri.currently he is a student doctor at the college of human medicine university of Nigeria Nsukka with a strong mandible for the wonders of the universe. He has been published in AFRICAN WRITER and PRAXIS MAGAZINE. His work is about to be published in TUCK, BANGALORE and KALAHARI. Gene Groves lives in Northumberland but is originally from Wales. She had 35 poems in Flambard New Poets 2. Her poetry has appeared in numerous magazines including New Welsh Review, The Interpreter's House, Obsessed With Pipework, Pre-Raphaelite Society Review, Prole, Orbis and Weyfarers. Online poems on Diamond Twig and Writers' Cafe. She enjoys reading at poetry events and is working on a collection.

R. M. Francis lives in Dudley, currently researching his PhD at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two poetry pamphlets, Transitions (Black Light Engine Room, 2015) and Orpheus (Lapwing Publications) Find out more at rmfrancis.weebly.com. Follow him @RMFrancis on twitter. Jonathan Humble is a teacher who writes poetry and short stories. His stuff pops up from time to time in journals and anthologies in print and online. He currently holds the position of Poet Laureate for the Tripe Marketing Board and Rossendale’s Sunday Morning Clog Market. Carole Bromley lives in York. She has three books with Smith/Doorstop: A Guided Tour of the Ice House, The Stonegate Devil and Blast Off ( a collection for children). Jean Morris is a writer, editor and translator living in London. Her poems have been published online in Gnarled Oak, Otata and The Writers’ Café Magazine. Danielle Matthews is a published writer from Manchester, UK. She lives for the written word, and, despite being a city girl, loves nature and the outdoors. Danielle lives with a vast hoard of books and her fiancé near Manchester and gets out to touch the bark of trees as often as she can. Sebnem E. Sanders is a native of Istanbul, Turkey. Currently she lives on the eastern shores of the Southern Aegean where she dreams and writes Flash Fiction and Flash Poesy, as well as longer works of fiction. Her flash stories have been published in various online literary magazines and two anthologies. Her collection of short fiction, Ripples on the Pond, was published in December 2017. More information on her work can be found at her website where she publishes some of her work: sebnemsanders.wordpress.com Twitter: @sebnemsanders

Previous Publication Credits ‘Last Night I Became an Emperor Moth’ by Annest Gwilym was first published in ‘A Compendium of Beasts – A PK Project. A bestiary of the weird and the wonderful, the real and imagined’ – an e-book / anthology produced for National Poetry Day, 6 October 2016, and was winner of firstwriter.com’s Fifteenth International Poetry Competition 2016/17. ‘The Hare on the Hill’ by Peter Burrows was first published in Southlight Issue 22, 2017. ‘The Stone Sleep’ by Raine Geoghegan was first published in Anima Poetry Journal. ‘Ophidian Daughter’ by Sam Jowett was first published at Fickle Muses. ‘Angel’s Cove’ by Sebnem Sanders was first published at Sick Lit.