In the latest issue:

The American Virus

Eliot Weinberger

The Home Life of Inspector Maigret

John Lanchester

Story: ‘Have a Seat in the Big Black Chair’

Diane Williams

The Last Whale

Colin Burrow

In Beijing

Long Ling

Princess Margaret and Lady Anne

Rosemary Hill

At the Movies: ‘Arkansas’

Michael Wood

Ruin it your own way

Susan Pedersen

At Home

Jane Miller

Good to Think With

Helen Pfeifer

Poem: ‘Muntjac’

Blake Morrison

The Inequality Engine

Geoff Mann

Short Cuts: In Tripoli

Jérôme Tubiana

Coetzee Makes a Leap

Christopher Tayler

At Auckland Castle: Francisco de Zurbarán

Nicola Jennings

Drain the Swamps

Steven Shapin

Diary: In the Isolation Room

Nicholas Spice

Their voices rangCharles Tomlinson
Close
Close

Their voices rang
through the winter trees:
they were speaking and yet it seemed they sang,
the trunks a hall of victory.

And what is that and where?
Though we come to it rarely,
the sense of all that we might be
conjures the place from air.

Is it the mind, then?
It is the mind received,
assumed into a season
forestial in the absence of all leaves.

Their voices rang
through the winter trees and time
catching the cadence of that song
forgot itself in them.

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