The Bristol Arm.

Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan's face to the wall at the end of the bar. "No, no, Sam," he was saying. "It's ‘uff’, not ‘ow’. Stoneyclough." He … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.

The Ungathered Pome.

Through the moonlit orchard, ghostly, passed a cohort quiet mostly, but for bridled horses snorting and a phaeton's lines, unspoken. In the loaming,                                                                                                      apples, gallowed, tarnished silver, in the branches, shivered in that haunted gloam; the ungathered pome. * Shadows rushed the walls and ceiling of my chamber, causing flame and … Continue reading The Ungathered Pome.