Coals The abandoned farm is a black pool aaaaaaain the memory of the forest beyond. The road goes by never...
Circa 1900 Waldo sharpened the blades of his turn-of-the-last-century sled and slid Downhill at age eighty-four. His wife chided him,...
Him and the Dog She stands birching Towards river Black metal liquid Sweating paper Southeast Her pepper white skin flapping...
Controversy Not looking for Controversy, I found it four miles from where I grew up, as the crow flies. Controversy...
Country Love and Lore Scarecrow needs a new suit. What will the neighbours think, between our field and theirs it...
The Last Mile I ran from tail flicking Friesians their eyes, pools of nowhere, and when everywhere wore off I...
Jeremy Haworth is an Irish poet and writer. In 2019, he started Charis Garden, renovating a tumbledown farmstead and walled...
My Uncle’s Farm I recollect particulars by the dozen, But late in life I yearn to shift the sensory into...
Daughter of the Deep Places A hardwood doesn’t settle in its spot Out of any preference for that spot. She...
Passing Through Uncertain if it was my home, the shifting lens of time bears down on the house – nearer...
Weeding in the Tillage Field c.1969 Drizzly rain in for the day. The young lad, set to weeding the tillage-patch...
When They Ring Those Golden Bells Days fall away like apples from October tress cheeks, full and ablush, kissing silver from delicate wrists...