poems and stories 

scroll down to read poems and stories on our Spring theme

growing weekly from March to June 2019


Thirteen-year-old Ide Crawford has won the Betjeman Poetry Prize 2018 and the Alan Garner Writing Competition 2016, and has been shortlisted for the Young Walter Scott Prize. She is Poet Laureate of St. Pancras Station. She is currently working with the  Blacken Trust to set up an open project exploring the way creative writing can be rooted in locale. She writes prose as well as poetry and has recently completed a children’s time-slip novel exploring the secret history of two mysterious places. Ide’s favourite things are sunsets, twisted tree trunks, thunderstorms, snowdrifts, and dusty books. She tweets about nature and folklore at  @mytangledgarden.

Ide Crawford – Song of the Naiad



Song of the Naiad





We sing our song of rise-rush-ring and spiral-sweep-spill

Of dip-down-ripple and fast flow-fill

Of wept water and whispering weed

Of sound-smooth rocks and silver speed

Of moss-fold and light-fold and shade-fold

Of tingling toes and cutting crisp call cold

Of bright bends and bubbles and broken-blue

Of sweet-sun-shafts that go tumbling through 

Of stream-curve-carved seats

Of cold-quickened heartbeats

Of races where water is winning

Of sky-snatches spinning

Of on-rush, down-pull

Fast and full


Rise-rush-ring, spiral-sweep-spill, dip-down-ripple, fast flow-fill

Tingling toes, broken-blue, sweet-sun-shafts, spiral-sweep-spill

Weed, wept-water, crisp-call cold, silver speed, fast flow-fill

Fill, flow, fast flow-fill, ripple-down, sweep-spiral, dip – spill


We sing our song of all this, and more,

From the stream will this music pour

From the stream this music thrill

The music of water-spill and heart-fill

Water-spill, heart-fill



Ide Crawford






Jeffrey Yamaguchi creates projects with words, photos, and video as art explorations, as well as through his work in the publishing industry.  

Jeffrey Yamaguchi – Lone Tree on Abandoned Pier









Lone Tree on Abandoned Pier




Edge of the city

lone tree on abandoned pier

layered in the dust

of rusted out nails

outlasting the sun

the splinters of crumbling wood

cast off a final message:

roots will find a way



Jeffrey Yamaguchi




Sue Spiers is British Mensa’s SIG Sec for Poetry and her first collection is called Jiggle Sac. Her poems have appeared in Acumen, Dream Catcher, South Bank Poetry, among others, and online at and Her work has been included in the Bloodaxe anthology Hallelujah for 50ft Women and in the Paper Swans Press anthology Best of British.

Sue Spiers – Droplets








What is the language of water

with no mouth, no larynx, no tongue?

Does water speak?


Does a stream sing?

Each note struck on rocks,

like a xylophone of stones.


Does a waterfall guffaw?

Transmitting the joke down,

fall about, laugh like a drain.


Does rain gossip?

Spread its tittle-tattle, spit spittle

at breeze’s rumour through corn.


Does the sea show anger?

Thumping waves, crashing breakers,

churning undercurrent?


Does a lake convey stoicism?

Silent shifts of depth,

reply, ‘nothing’s wrong,’

when you know it is.



Sue Spiers


First published in Obsessed With Pipework #82


November 1987 by Sue Spiers


Carol Parris Krauss is a mother, poet, and teacher from the Tidewater region of Virginia. She was recently honoured by the University of Virginia Press as a 2018 Best New Poet. Her work can be found online and in print in Amsterdam Quarterly, Storysouth, and Poetry24 amongst others. She enjoys American college football, gardening, and her many pets. 

Carol Krauss – The Drought





The Drought




Long ago father led me, all train trestle legs and elbows,

through Pisgah Forest on a day hike.


Near the turkey brush and mountain laurel, a hook, a tiny crook

of Pisgah River had run dry.


Cracked and segmented from lack of God’s grace,Momma said.

We walked the parched branch past


Farlow Gap, beneath a parasol of Pignut Hickory

and Scarlet Oak trees.


I’m still all elbows, legs. My skin a segmented, dried out

creek bed. Age spots, like river rocks, lifting on the edges,


scatter about hook and crook, marking my time in the sun. The

drought of God’s grace.



Carol Krauss






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