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

If what you hear is like a field
and the height of a lark above it
then the field has dwindled and the wind
bells on the razor wire around
the verge beyond which nothing
but the pointless din of outer space
gets through to you. Acoustic junk.
The earth itself begins to hum
with the infinitesimal tunnelling
of umpteen holts and vaults and brood halls
and the sky each dawn is lower than
the day before as through wound down
like a press-head on a worm-screw
where once you woke and heard the threads
of birdsong trailed from hedge to hedge
as clear and intricately round
as a palm-bark epic in Telugu.

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