Day One From nowhere a displaced, Cloven, braced in the shallows Marmite eyes unanswered He vaults over the ford Interrupted. Day Three A puppet under the hedge Tiny antlers once sculpted of bone, cartilage, fibrous tissue, skin, nerves, vessels. Uncalled-for on grass verge of death Eye: quill in a bloodwell Back end: velour peeled already…

The Lonely Crowd will feature new work by a different poet each month throughout 2026. For June, we are delighted to publish three new works by Melanie Marshall. The first of these, ‘Dark bordered (Epione vespertaria)’ is published today with two more poems to follow throughout the month.  Dark bordered (Epione vespertaria)   Repelled by cedar,…

Separate episodes at the panelbeater’s left his ninety-eight Fiat Punto a particoloured motley: red body, black bonnet, right front hub blue, the other cowled under dinted dirty white. A Ferrari sticker on the boot emblem, the interior a snug perfection: flossy tassel bobbing by the mirror, seats of crimped satin. Once, red early, his iceburn…

The Lonely Crowd will feature new work by a different poet each month throughout 2026. For May, we are delighted to publish three new works by Tim MacGabhann. The first of these, ‘A Winter Dedication’, is published today with two more poems to follow throughout the month.    A Winter Dedication (for Sean and Lisa)…

A lot of my work is nature themed, exploring and reflecting on ecocentrism. As a child, I spent hours drawing, writing and making things, collecting details even then from simply observing the minutiae of everything around me. This wandering (and wondering) through bluebells, city parks and woods with my father and later, on my own through fields, on beaches and through mountain heather, cemented an appreciation of what lives around, with, under and between us. In essence it’s acknowledging and respecting the interconnectedness of everything. I spent my early childhood in the English midlands and later in Greencastle, Donegal.

  My dreams are dark as peat. They’re fen and flush, hillock and hollow under orange glow. Pyres of wood scraps and tractor tyres sate the soot-black sky. Cut grass sugars the ring wormed gate. It crumbles to ash in my hands. Another gate is a mound of pheasant feathers. I cannot reach the field.…

You set off with a duck stance, feet snug in fins and an underwater camera strapped to your freckled brow. You turn with a double thumb gesture, then slip under like a cormorant. I abandon my book   marking the page with a razorshell sliver. I scan the water for splashing fins and a snorkel…