For my father, 03.08.01

A moth ticking, persistent.
The fluorescent tube
hot, long, white overhead,
my head bent till twilight.

Summer outside, high summer,
It was on August third.
All still. A flutter
at the pulse of the throat.

Dearest reader! Our newsletter!

Sign up to our newsletter for the latest content, freebies, news and competition updates, right to your inbox. From the oldest literary periodical in the UK.

You can unsubscribe any time by clicking the link in the footer of any email you receive from us, or directly on Find our privacy policies and terms of use at the bottom of our website.