by Cae Hawksmoor, UK
There are things we were not meant to bear: the weight of plastic flapping in the hedgerows, December daffodils, and February fire— a mile long, scorching Saddleworth to bone. On the factory-crowded mere, thistledown rises smoke-like through the rushes and the dry, deep cup within me overflows. I cannot contain the marsh harrier that pivots through gleaming air, blood thumping in my aching throat, repeating in a voice both frail and ferocious: and yet you live, and yet you live, and yet you live.