Autumn at Tranquility Point

Walk into the sand;
a dune avalanche.
Grasses sway to
cool crispy winds;
sound of waves
crashing to shore;
seagulls barter
for tidbits in rocks.
Along the stagnant
shallow festering,
marshy salt pools
near the open sea.
Booted feet begging
for the touch and
soothing sensation of
warm summer sand.
Waves race from the
depths chasing shore
birds and children
all along the beach.
Egrets hunt minnows
as evening greets a
coolish sea breeze.
Another autumn day
at Tranquility Point.

By Ken Allan Dronsfield

golden grass on white sand dunes

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet who was nominated for The Best of the Net and two Pushcart Awards for Poetry in 2016. His poetry has been published world-wide in various publications throughout North and South America, Europe, Asia, Australia and Africa. Ken loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Willa, Hemi and Turbo. Ken’s new book, The Cellaring a collection of haunting, paranormal, weird and wonderful poems, has been released and is available through He is the co-editor of two poetry anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available from

Photo by Barbara Reddoch

Another Field Gone

When the pigeons lifted
and their wings flapped
like pages flicked in a book,

the field became our own again.
Seed hung on the tips of summer
and tractors waited in heaviness.

Another June to August
had left us. The barbecue’s we
have yet to cook. Campsites

known but never seen, stars
wasted in moonlit skies, owl
hoots locked out by a door.

Then the tractors came to plough
away the sun growth.
We turned to thicker curtains,

logs on the fire, coal, coal,
and blackened fingers.
Another year older for the next
summer. And bones thicker

with work, skin creased with rain.
Wishing our lives would be lived

By Gareth Culshaw

farmer with children on tractor

Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

Photo by William Perugini

Memory Loss

Stars and planets run wild
at night, summer days bring no rain,
farmers strain to move heaven
and earth to thunder, weeds scream
in pain, grass bristles, leaves are still.

Your renown, brown and dry
as the grass, once green and spry.
Your mind falters, once quick
enough to make dust fly. A dog’s rustic,
woody bark, too much like bark
of drought-stressed trees.

Have you put your ear to their trunks
and listened, as they strain to sip drops
up their straws to the tips of the farthest
leaves, imagined you hear their hollow tubes
break from the pressure of bubbles?

Memory’s drought: each word
remembered a precious drop
not to be wasted. But all
you remember is the rhyme
about King Henry the Eighth’s wives:
“Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced,
beheaded, survived.” Will the trees
die or survive?

A snake lies flattened and dried
on the road, your feet scuff gravel,
your mind a thundercloud of anger
because you can’t remember
the smell of rain.

By Meg Freer

barren ground sunset

Meg Freer grew up in Missoula, Montana, US, and now lives with her family in Kingston, Ontario, Canada, where she teaches piano and enjoys running and photography. She began writing poetry in 2015. Her photos and poems have won awards both in North America and overseas and have been published in chapbooks and in both print and online anthologies. In 2017 she won a fellowship and attended the Summer Literary Seminars in Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia. Journal entries and photos from Tbilisi may be found here.

Photo by Kritsada Seekham

The Plum Tree

For my grandchildren, Bella, Jett, Eleanor, Max, Emmanuel and James

Look little ones,
the leaves have turned yellow,
the sky is pure blue,
the day mild and mellow.

Look little ones,
the trees are now bare,
there’s frost in the morning
and cold everywhere.

Look little ones,
there’s buds on the trees,
flowers are blossoming
and buzzing with bees.

Look little ones,
in this blossoming blooming
the cycle of life
is forever renewing.

By Neil Creighton

drawing of a plum tree
Sketch of a plum tree in blossom by the author’s late mother, Brenda Creighton

Neil Creighton is an Australian poet whose work as a teacher of English and Drama brought him into close contact with thousands of young lives, most happy and triumphant but too many tragically filled with neglect. It also made him intensely aware of how opportunity is so unequally proportioned and his work reflects strong interest in social justice. Recent publications include Poetry Quarterly, Poeming Pigeon, Silver Birch Press, Rat’s Ass Review, Praxis Mag Online, Ekphrastic Review, Social Justice Poetry and Verse-Virtual. He blogs at

The Old Building Made Of Wood

I am walking into a wood
that is like an old building, crumbling
to the ground. Light spears
through where it’s not meant to.
Wind pinches the air, shaking
the summer out of the leaves
A kestrel lingers on the edge
with its ghost flapping wings.
I move with each press of foot,
feeling the hard cobbled earth
of roots and limbs. A buzzard
is pushed out of the trees,
birds separate themselves
from the wood. I become a lone
figure, walking with feet
that gain weight by losing light
each passing year.

By Gareth Culshaw

hiking rocky path through deep forest

Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

Photo by Jaromír Chalabala