The News from M—, by Lytton Smith

Here, where you all are,
language is an accessory

to bodies lying in the street,
prone in government rooms,

bloated in the waterways.
Or language is an accessory

to the refutation of bodies
lying etc. This too will pass

as search vessels in the delta
pass for smuggling operations

bringing illicit food to refugees
being autocued for media

appearances. What commerce
would you with us all. What

coverage can you offer for
coastal breach, aid refusal,

for the taut sinews and caught
breath of seated uprisen monks.

Cold Morning, by Eamon Grennan

Through an accidental crack in the curtain
I can see the eight o’clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things

in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it
as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone,
telling its tale of how hard the night had to be

for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood
no match for the mindless chill that’s settled in,
a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff

from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze
glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped
on every window, its petrifying breath a cage

in which all the warmth we were is shivering.