Christmas Pudding – Orla Fay

Christmas Pudding

This year’s dark evening saw the preparation;
the raisins, sultanas, orange and lemon peel,
the grated rinds, the spoonful of whiskey,
the can of Guinness, to add cherries or not?
And then reminiscing, calling the old spirits back,
how her mother would have hers bubbling away,
how hers always turned out perfectly,
how she could always seem to make something
from the nothing they had, with many to feed.

I recall late autumn days in the wooden shed by our house,
my brother and I watching the steam from the hob there.
I think of Dad knotting the bowls for those creations
with blue twine that had been saved from bales of straw.
We knew that they were Christmas puddings
and we were caught in the magical slant of time between
Hallowe’en and Yule, babes in the wood
where the shadows gathered, puppets on strings
dancing with the flickering flames.


Orla Fay is editor of Boyne Berries. Recently her poetry has appeared in The Irish Times, Poetry Ireland Review, ROPES 2019, Impossible Archetype, The Bangor Literary Journal, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Tales from the Forest, Quarryman and FourXFour. This year she was shortlisted for The Cúirt New Writing Prize. She won 3rd prize in The Oliver Goldsmith Poetry Award 2019. Her shorty story Foxy was published on the incubator selects in April. She is working towards a first collection of poetry. She blogs at  Twitter @FayOrla

Harold – Jennie Farley


When I can’t sleep I pull the blankets
tight around me and grip the reins.
Harold’s antlers spread a shadow
over the ceiling. I shake the bridle,
the bells tinkle, and off we go through
the moonlit window, past the tool shed,
the bird bath, over the fence.
Harold’s antlers are frosted velvet,
his hooves flick snow flurries around us,
his comfortable bulk swaying
from side to side.

Into a world of snow and silence,
pine trees, bushes silvered with frost
and ice, the sky bright with stars.
Flares light a rutted white track
as we pull up at a staging post,
greeted with a smile by a person
coddled in furs who crouches
beside a small wood fire,
playing notes on a slim reed pipe
like no tune I’ve ever heard.

A lady with yellow plaits
in a bright wool skirt bids us
pause a while, brings a bucket of water
and a lichen sandwich for Harold,
a mug of cocoa for me.

We set off again. I find a box
of Turkish Delight and an embroidered
doll tucked beneath my rugs.

The sky pales to pink. I nestle down
as Harold clops gently homeward
taking me to my morning bed.


Jennie Farley is a published poet, workshop leader and teacher living in Cheltenham.
Her work has featured in magazines including Prole, Under the Radar, The Interpreter’s House, and been performed at festivals.  Her first collection was Her Grandmother Skating(Indigo Dreams Publishing 2016) followed by Hex (IDP 2018). She is working on a short pamphlet The Gymslip Girls.

Beethoven’s Bust. – Lesley Quayle

Beethoven’s Bust.

Beethoven’s bust is broken, a feather-duster casualty,
stoic in Sellotape – a fix of yellowed strips and super-glue –
propped up in hot-flush-corner where ladies of a certain age
take turns to fan themselves with laminated wine lists.

Beethoven’s reconstructed eyes, one higher than the other,
their botched and sticky gaze a hint of former la-di-da,
observe the glow, the menu wafting haze,
study the corner where old men sit,

noses down, a contemplation of pint and pie and mushy peas,
bald heads, their greasy caps shucked off in peeling heat;
they smell of sweat and gravy. No conversation, a rattle of mucus,
a crack of bones, the slap of chapping dominoes to bless

their fiefdom while, beneath planked tables, tired dogs fold
their skinny, creaking limbs to small confines, and snore.
Where Ursula, the counterfeit coquette, a fugitive from
hot-flush-corner, meets the edgelands of age

with carmine pouts and an overdose of rouge,
stumbles over port and lemon, targeting the vacant
laps of young men, who flock together,
migrating from her autumnal reaches.

The fire flickers, a lantern show over brass and warm mahogany,
night slides through windows in reds and pinks and gold.
In come the farmhands, in their overalls and mud-caked boots,
a man who does Times’ crosswords, cider drinkers, ale suppers,

Red Biddy quaffers, white wine connoisseurs, back-slappers,
lone wolves, the gluggers and sippers, the one who’s always
shown the door, yer barred, the one who’s nightly taken home
and put to bed – the piano player, assaulting keys till

stone walls bulge and air parts, such is the cacophony,
and all the mouths are out of sync and fill the bar
with one long baritone, the till, a treble dissonance,
the metal ting. Outside, smokers light up, inhale and sigh.


Lesley Quayle is a widely published, prize-winning poet. A folk/blues singer and editor, she has a collection, Sessions (Indigo Dreams) and a pamphlet Songs For Lesser Gods (erbacce) and her latest pamphlet Black Bicycle published in May by 4Word.

New Trees – Ian Glass

New Trees

There were other trees on this street,
then one day stumps
and the next just patches of tarmac.

They were the wrong sort of trees.

Their roots flexed like toes in sand
and cracked the pavement.

Their branches stretched wide like daybreak
and threatened the road.

Their leaves danced shadows over shopfronts
and could not be controlled.

Now we have the right sort of trees.

They stand obedient in solitary planters,
opposite Poundland, their branches cut
into economical cubes.


Ian lives in Worcestershire where he works as a programmer while studying for an MA in Writing Poetry at Newcastle University. Ian’s first pamphlet ‘About Leaving’ was published by V. Press in November 2019.

Omaha – David Calcutt


I walked the length
of Omaha Beach
where the killing took place

there were old men
in baseball caps smiling
in front of the monument

a woman crouching
at the sea’s edge
pressing her hand
into the wet sand

a man who sat cross-
legged on a stone
eyes closed, palms out
in meditation or prayer

as I walked on past
the lines of sea-blackened
wooden piles

sticking up out of the sand

sandpipers skittered
across the beach
and the grey waves
foamed and broke
on the rocks

it was a day of wind
and sunlight
and shadows that flickered
along the sidelines

and up on the terrace café
my dead son
was sitting at a table
eating and drinking
and having a good time

and beyond him
the dark blue line
of the horizon
ran straight and clean
and was empty of ships.

David Calcutt is a playwright, poet and fiction writer. Many of his original plays and
adaptations have been broadcast on BBC radio, and his plays for theatre have been performed in both professional and community settings. Several of his plays for young people are published by Oxford University Press, as are three of his four novels for young people. His poetry appears widely in print and online magazines, and he is the author of four poetry collections.


Christmas Voices – Nicky Phillips

Christmas Voices

I hope the carol singers come back tonight,
with pure songs, tales of joy, family, inclusion.
Their voices are so much sweeter than Tom’s,
the strong one in my head that tries to control me.

My parents spoke to me, they’re away for Christmas,
I must stand on my own two feet. Sam, our spaniel,
helps calm me, but when I wanted to call round,
they told me they’re packing, taking him to kennels.

Tom’s always here, never stops talking, wakes me
by shouting, tells me what to do, says I’m worthless,
a burden, no use to anyone. I turn on Christmas radio,
watch films on TV; they help, a little, sometimes.

Even the doctor can’t see me till January.
And the team aren’t available over the holiday.
Perhaps they would all be better off without me.
I do hope the carol singers come back tonight.


Nicky Phillips lives in Hertfordshire. Her poems have been published in magazines
and online. In 2017 one was nominated for Forward Prize for Best Single Poem. Her
pamphlet Jam in Aisle 3 was published by Dempsey & Windle in 2018.

Remembering Eggshells – Sarah James

Remembering Eggshells

Every year with my son’s birthday cake,
I relive hours of pushing, the rush to cut
me open. My boy alive but in neonatal care,
with nasal drip and encased in plastic.

The years too since Mum’s diagnosis.
She could only hold him later,
after her radiotherapy; her head
dressed up like a cosied teapot.

Her baldness was softened by baby fuzz
as his hair grew free of fluffy chickness.
We watch together as he blows out
his fifteen candles. He’s taller than us now,

but I still feel the eggshell thinness
of both their bared scalps.


Sarah James/Leavesley is a poet, fiction writer, journalist and photographer. Her recent titles How to Grow Matches (Against The Grain Poetry Press) and plenty-fish (Nine Arches Press) were both shortlisted in the International Rubery Book Awards. Her website is at

Featured Publication – Going in with flowers by Avril Joy

Our featured publication for December is Going in with flowers by Avril Joy, published by Linen Press.

‘The women of Low Newton live in me. They are written here, in these poems. Every time a poem is read, their voices are heard, and the voices of women in prison everywhere.’

A collection of poetry and prose which chronicles the hidden lives of women locked behind bars – the deadening routines broken by dramas and crises, friendships and conflicts, hopes and fears. Based on twenty-five years working in HMP Low Newton, County Durham, Avril Joy writes of the going in through gates to meet darkness and pain as well as laughter and love. Her words echo the women’s voices with authenticity, compassion and humour and transform them into poems written with breathtaking originality.

‘Poetry is a natural place to express the most intense feelings. But for it to work it has to be more than just expression; it has to be transformational. Avril’s poems have that quality. Skomm is an absolutely shattering poem and it’s not going to leave me.’ Clare Shaw

cover GIWF



The girl with the goose on her head sits by the window in the corner of the
there are others with her – among them her sister – their geese barely a wing
less visible.
The weight of goose swells the air, the room is ripe with the scent of goose shit.
I put down my bag, take off my scarf and coat and wonder about the snow
covering the road. Outside the wind is up and the yard is frosting over.
Better make a start, I say. They pick up pens, open books. The girl with the goose
on her head declines to write, says she cannot concentrate
for the load, the poundage, her shortened neck, compacted spine,
for centuries of carrying: scamu, skomm, shame, the bird force fed, gavage-pipe
in the oesophagus, on its back, legs splayed, neck craned, half-buried in its chest
the words whispered in a father’s bed.
She says she cannot stop thinking, None of us can Miss, the nights are the worst,
corralled, wings beating, they leave their bodies, fly up in a blizzard,
a captive murmuration.
Jesus, look at the snow. Will you get home alright Miss? What about the kids?
I look out at the fattening flakes, the absent ground. I taste the goose,
all twenty pounds of it, sweat and stink.
Snow falls on my tongue the lightest it’s been.
I’ll get home alright, I say, now close your books. What will it be?
A story, say the girls with geese, and they fold their arms, lay down their heads.

Skomm won the York Mix Lit Fest competition


The Karaoke Queen’s survival kit

lived in the stationery cupboard,
back office of the education block
in a plastic crowned H.M.P. bag
smelling of old roses and cheap perfumes.

Your cosmetic lucky dip,
our remnant offerings: foundations, eye shadows,
mascaras and blushers, glosses and lipsticks,
oh, those lipsticks – your street walking,
pay for your wrap, keep the pimp off your back,

Your cock sucking, lip syncing, Amy Winehouse
sing like a demon, I told you I was trouble,
you know that I’m no good,

Morning movement over
classroom doors pulled to
you crossed the central area
like a child alone in the playground
and mouthed at the office window
Can I? Can I Miss?

Previously published in Snakeskin


Stone Dress
Any imposition of solitary confinement beyond 15 days constitutes torture.
Juan E. Méndez, United Nations

Her body is covered with a skin as hard as rock
they sometimes call her Stone-Dress.

The sharp finger of her right hand is spear, the knife
she uses to dissect herself.

They keep her behind doors in the petrified forest
of the inhuman, unfit,

left to rot, thin mattress on a concrete platform
steel toilet, colourless brick.

They keep her in Deep Custody, but for an hour
or less a day in the yard

high-wired and featureless, a rhomboid sky.
Out here her weapon leaves no scar,

out here she builds bridges in air, mountain
pansies bloom in the small cleft of her, clinging

like alpines to rock. Her dress folds to spindrift.
If she could, she would lie on her back and hum

at the hidden stars. Five years she has lived like this,
Stone Dress, scaring the birds from the forest.


Before becoming a full-time writer, Avril Joy worked for twenty-five years in Low
Newton women’s prison in County Durham. Her short fiction has appeared in literary
magazines and anthologies, including Victoria Hislop’s, The Story: Love, Loss & the
Lives of Women. Her work has been shortlisted in competitions including, the
Bridport, the Manchester Prize for Fiction and The Raymond Carver Short Story Prize.
In 2012 her story, Millie and Bird, won the inaugural Costa Short Story Award.
Her novel, Sometimes a River Song, published by Linen Press, won the 2017 People’s
Book Prize for outstanding achievement. Her poetry has appeared both in print and online. In 2019 her poem Skomm won the York Literary Festival poetry competition.
Avril lives with her partner near Bishop Auckland, in County Durham and posts
regularly at
Going in with flowers is available for purchase from the Linen Press website.