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 HuntersJamie McKendrick
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We that have been hunting all the day
are mighty tired, our hair is dank with sweat
and by our hunting helmets plastered flat.

As days of hunting go, this must be counted
a good day: the horns blew loud and the dogs
barked hard as though they knew it was more for them

than us we went out hunting the wild beast
all day – so they could teach him just how tame
they were, and how wrong to think that being dogs

had taken the edge off their appetite
for sport. We that have been hunting all the day
will keep on hunting through the night

for finer creatures than the forests hide,
through forests deeper than the ones of day.

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