art, Poem, Poetry


To celebrate the start of November (yes, already), today we celebrate the impressive debut Maytree publication from Colin Bancroft.

Impermanence features a collection of both award winning and previously published poems which the author describes as his life’s work to date.

The collection opens with the stunning Tethered and gathers pace from there on with a series of poems entangled by relationships, nature and the North of England that have previously featured across a variety of publications.

Many readers will already be familiar with Colin’s work as an editor and poetry promoter – he recently established the hugely popular Poets Directory and has launched both the 192 magazine and Nine Pens Press. Now’s your chance to discover the talent that drives one of the hardest working people in the poetry publishing world.


All I could think about when you told me
That we had lost it, was that night 
We spent camping in Braemar
And the wind funnelling down the channel
Between the hills at such a rate 
That it bent the tent poles and pushed
The fabric almost into our faces,
As though there were great pressure
Being applied on the outside
And the whole of the world
Was sitting on our refuge, crushing it down.
That crush has come again,
Though different now in the silence
Of the stairs, and the rain is now your sobs
And the wind the startled breaths 
You take on my shoulder.
That night I thought that we might blow away.
I could feel the guy ropes burying themselves
Deeper, holding on for dear life,
Knowing that if they weren’t tethered
In the ground that they could end up anywhere.
That tugging is you holding onto my shirt,
Pulling it tightly in your stooped sadness,
Holding you up. As though without a firm
Grip you might take off and end up somewhere
Beyond that valley, that field and these stairs.


I suppose if I were to compare it to anything
It would be snow. That moment of wonder 
When you open the curtains on a morning
And find that the whole world is under
New conditions. Everything unwritten
And laid out with a brilliant innocence,
Every unsightly blemish neatly hidden
Beneath a moment that seems to be synchronous
With happiness. But it never lasts, as we know,
And soon it starts to melt down to slush:
The old dark world rising up from below
To lock us back into its inescapable crush.

Impermanence, published by Maytree Press, was released on the 30 October 2020. The cover features the wonderful original artwork, Autumn Glow by Kevin Threlfall.

The collection is available direct from Colin via the Poets Directory Shop, The Maytree Press Shop, Amazon plus all good book shops (ask them to order).

You can find out more here:

Beautiful Creatures, Poem, Poetry

Clint Wastling

The Pilgrim Hare

No more to roam the fields or box on the fertile loam,
Or sniff and savour the air or watch the moon without a care,
Or run along a furrow with ears poised and primed
For the ever present danger of dog or man unkind.

I am the pilgrim hare which many seek but fewer find.
My satchel’s full to brimming with messages for mankind.
My staff is stout and strong as I start my pilgrimage
Round the churches, shrines and holy wells, this is my heritage.

Created by an unknown hand from pure limestone
I am St Mary’s pilgrim hare, feeling all alone,
five hundred years or more I waited by this arch
to see another winter, neither mad nor march.

And silent as a stone I wait for liberation
when I might join the other hares and sniff the air and watch the moon,
or chase a doe in mating as the summer hay grows strong.
Til then, I wait, it cannot come too soon.

Clint Wastling is a writer based in The East Riding of Yorkshire. His poetry has been widely published in the UK, Ireland and USA. He regularly performs at literature festivals including Ilkley, York and Fantasycon as well as organising workshops. His debut novel, Tyrants Rex, was published by Stairwell Books. Clint pamphlet, Layers, was published by Maytree Press in 2019.

Beautiful Creatures, Poem, Poetry

Olivia Dawson

Elegant Sheep Moth
(Hemileuca Eglanterina)

I’m no stinky Goat moth clinging
to your hair like Velcro, my larvae won’t binge
on your ears or skin. I bloom

on sweeter scents of wild rose and lilac.
I’m a day-flying moth, fast as a hummingbird,
my tiny pink scales as chic as rubellite.

I hang out in high pastures, laze on sagebrush and pine.
Enticed by a hint of sun I’ll unfold my chevron wings, pose
like a pin-up for a selfie with sheep.

Olivia Dawson, originally from London, lives between London and the Sintra Hills in Portugal. She has a Creative Writing MA from Lancaster University and her poetry has been published in a wide variety of poetry magazines and anthologies. Her debut pamphlet, Unfolded, was published in 2020 by Maytree Press.

Beautiful Creatures, Poem, Poetry

Susan Waters

When Suburbia Moved In Next Door

It was the same year
the peacocks died. We burned the shed
burned their bodies, stiff as March wind,
dense as newly cut wood.

When we looked up
from the tongues of flame,
we saw two women staring
at us from their bright new homes.
They passed back and forth a disgusted look.

They didn’t know we torched
the plot so the other animals,
pawing, as they would through rot,
wouldn’t get what took
the swagger from the peacocks
without a track of blood.

They didn’t know we kept the birds
for their color and their noise.
They were like decorations
from a party.

The women shook their heads
and before our eyes an opal tip of feather
floated upward, like an eye,
on the heat’s current.

Susan Waters started out as a journalist covering hard news in upstate New York and for 13 years was a magazine editor and writer at the Virginia Institute of Marine Science, College of William and Mary.  Her publishing credits are extensive. She has won 10 prizes in poetry and have been nominated twice for the Push Cart Prize in Poetry. Her chapbook Heat Lightning was published in 2017 by Orchard Street Press. Currently, she is Professor Emeritus at New Mexico Junior College.

Beautiful Creatures, Poem, Poetry

Rosemary McLeish

Talking to the Dodo

I do know that you died, you and
all of your kind, a long time ago.
But I want to have this conversation
and the living don’t have the patience.
You know what it’s like to fall
into a lake of tears, to think you will
never reach dry land again, never
unruffle your bedraggled feathers.

My whole life has become a caucus race,
with no beginning and no end,
no rules, and no winners, only losers.
What I want to ask you, Dodo, is why
did you simply drop out of the story?
I’m afraid the same fate awaits me.
Granted you made a bit of a mark,
but it’s crumbling now, dust in the wind,
with all the other forgotten creatures
who didn’t give a thought to legacies
or heritage, or what people thought of them.
Who remembers your beautiful plumage now?
All we know is your extinction.

After all, you couldn’t even fly!
I’m not a flyer myself, the more I try
to take off into the blue empyrean,
the more I am grounded on this sad earth,
my colours fading, my voice moving
further off into the mute distance.
What undoes me is that when I am gone
no-one will rail against the unfairness
of it all, no-one will complain.
No-one will write me into a story,
even if only to drop me out of it again.
I won’t even be a wail on the wind.

Rosemary McLeish is a poet, published widely in journals and anthologies.  She won second prize in the MsLexia competition 2018 and the Bedford International Competition 2019. Her collections “I am a field” and “Defragmentation” are published by Wordsmithery.  Further details can be found on her website,