In the latest issue:

Loathed by Huysmans

Julian Barnes

Too early or too late?

David Runciman

Short Cuts: Five Victorian Marriages

Tom Crewe

Society as a Broadband Network

William Davies

Fifteen days from now

Thomas Jones

In 1348

James Meek

The Yorkists

John Guy

At the Movies: Pasolini’s ‘Teorema’

Michael Wood

Whitehall Spookery

Neal Ascherson

Poem: ‘The Bannisters’

Paul Muldoon

Clarice Lispector

Rivka Galchen

Marius Petipa

Simon Morrison

At the Foundling Museum: ‘Portraying Pregnancy’

Joanne O’Leary

Gordon v. O’Connor

Rupert Thomson

Revism

Joe Dunthorne

Poem: ‘The Reach of the Sea’

Maureen N. McLane

Diary: Where water used to be

Rosa Lyster

Close
Close

We are waking early now –
filled with the urgency
small animals must feel
as they prepare for winter.

I had forgotten how cold
it would be – like coming back
after a summer of wandering
lusts to an old lover.

And how beautiful –
the corners of roofs
floating in a white mist
like pieces of wreckage;

afternoons when the sun
burns through – dries
the wings of dying wasps;
light of an awful clarity.

We must make the most of them
we say – these skies of pale
unclouded blue. (Our lives
move in and out of focus too.)

We tread through blankets
of bright leaves like children
playing games – now warm,
now cold and getting colder.

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