In the latest issue:

Boris Johnson’s First Year

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: In the Bunker

Thomas Jones

Theban Power

James Romm

What can the WHO do?

James Meek

At the Type Archive

Alice Spawls

Where the Poor Lived

Alison Light

At the Movies: ‘Da 5 Bloods’

Michael Wood

Cultural Pillaging

Neal Ascherson

Jenny Offill

Adam Mars-Jones

Shakespeare v. the English

Michael Dobson

Poem: ‘Now Is the Cool of the Day’

Maureen N. McLane

Tativille

David Trotter

Consider the Hare

Katherine Rundell

How Should I Refer to You?

Amia Srinivasan

Poem: ‘Field Crickets (Gryllus campestris)’

Fiona Benson

Diary: In Mali

Rahmane Idrissa

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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