It must be the midsummer heatwave, the hottest, driest summer in Britain for a generation, but I find myself reflecting on joy, and its opposite, the stone in the heart. by Gillian Clarke.
“The swallows are here. They arrived before Easter, the very pair, we must assume, that nested here last year, raising three broods of young on the same beam in our barn.” by Gillian Clarke.
“Snow in April. Blossom on the blackthorn - first petals on leafless hedges. A fizz of curdled frogspawn in the pond; lambs; wool caught on old brambles.” by Gillian Clarke.
“I’ve been reading about stone. I’m amazed all over again to be reminded that, apart from water, it is wind that wears stone away.” by Gillian Clarke.
“October, and in between marigold days, autumn has been taking itself apart. Every dawn there is more sky, and fewer leaves....” by Gillian Clarke.
“Kites falling on flesh. Out of a blue sky, one by one, coming in from all points over the mountains...” by Gillian Clarke.
The Reading and Writing Life of a Family by Gillian Clarke.
Banc Sion Cwilt by Gillian Clarke.
“War. Radios. The sea. A fox. Stone animals on a castle wall. I can’t say what came first...” by Gillian Clarke.
Eight poems for a desert island! Impossible. by Gillian Clarke.
