In the latest issue:

In Quarantine

Erin Maglaque

Après Brexit

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: Springtime for Donald

David Bromwich

Meetings with their Gods

Claire Hall

‘Generation Left’

William Davies

At the North Miami Museum: Alice Paalen Rahon

Mary Ann Caws

Buchan’s Banter

Christopher Tayler

‘American Dirt’

Christian Lorentzen

Fiction and the Age of Lies

Colin Burrow

In Lahore

Tariq Ali

GOD HATES YOUR FEELINGS

James Lasdun

Rereading Bowen

Tessa Hadley

At the Corner House

Rosemary Hill

William Gibson

Thomas Jones

Poem: ‘Murph & Me’

August Kleinzahler

The Stud File

Kevin Brazil

John Boorman’s Quiet Ending

David Thomson

In Shanghai: The West Bund Museum

John-Paul Stonard

Diary: The Deborah Orr I Knew

Jenny Turner

The Fox and the DuckBarbara Hardy
Close
Close

As I walk down to the shore at daybreak
You cross my path, old softstepper,
Just by the Tor where we’ve often smelt you.
Making tracks for your earth and cubs,
Back from the saltmarsh and watermeadows
Cradling a mallard in your mouth.

Surprised by me you drop the duck,
Present me with your proper prey,
Avert eyes and quicken trot
To become a part of the browning bracken
As I pick up the unmarked cooling body
To make a dinner of your breakfast.

I sigh for the green and the nightblue pinions,
All the pearly fluff of the tender breast feathers,
As with knowing hand I pluck the plumage
Till he lies there limp in a pimpled skin.
Eaten by me and killed by you,
You red beauty, my bloodbrother.

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