Theresa Donnelly

Solemnity of Saints

Between All Hallows Eve

and All Souls Day

you set off, briefcase in hand

a crusader departing for the Holy Land.

White starched mantle and a red tie

you return a stained man.

You bring blood to my table

visions and the Holy Ghost.


I lose my appetite

for sacrificial lamb;

take a walk near a sea

which has spat up monarchs

unable to fight the wind.

Their exodus unattainable,

they drowned and are buried

between rock and sand.


Such delicate wasted wings.


The sun moon-pale

offers little in the way of affection

to shivering maples, who shed

garments for baptismal rites, in order

to enter the kingdom of snow.


I return to the kitchen

to find you have changed into

a hair-shirt, pleading forgiveness

between saints promising

a beatific vision of heaven.



Theresa Donnelly is an Irish/Canadian poet who spends her time between Waterville, Co. Kerry and Brooklin, Ontario. Her poetry has been published in the Brooklin Town Crier, Surfacing Magazine, The Copperfield Review, Beret Days Press, Red Claw Press, Ink Bottle Press, Buried Horror Magazine and The Caterpillar Magazine. She is the author of two poetry books ‘Moon Witch and Other Scary Poems (juvenile) and Recurrence of Blue. She is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society and a founding member of The Brooklin Poetry Society.
For more information visit












Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon

For my Daughters: Known Vistas and Those Beyond Limits 

If I could,

I know I would  

gift the Border Ridge to you –


stone flagstones paths

to gain

raised slopes on Windy Gyle.

You’d picnic

and sit sheltered

by Russell’s Cairn’s stacked stones.

Gusts of Scottish southerlies

would burst the air

and finger

your loosed braids

of curly English hair.


Any season of the year,

happy or troubled,

the purpled green of curving hills

and waves of vales

would draw you here

to sit wind-blown,

in peace, and marvel.


You’d see so very far,

over wild-played

contour lines,

the views

of ups and downs

to which the only bar

is distance,

never difference.


Have faith,

that what’s beyond

your sight

and frames your life,

weaves tapestries

of charity and art –


though sometimes

you might lack

sufficient height to see it.



Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK. She writes short stories and poetry. She has been published in web magazines and print anthologies. These include Fiction on the Web, Alliterati, StepawayThree Drops from the Cauldron, Snakeskin, Obsessed with Pipework, The Linnet’s Wing, Blue Nib, Picaroon, AmaryllisAlgebra of Owls, The Lake, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Riggwelter, Poetry Shed, Southbank Poetry, Smeuse, Bandit Fiction, Atrium, Marauder,Prole and The Curlew. She was Highly Commended in the Blue Nib Chapbook Competition [Spring 2018] and won the Hedgehog Press Poetry Competition ‘Songs to Learn and Sing’. [August 2018]. In 2017 she graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University.

Laura Potts


From the sour breath of quarry towns we came,

to our scars the firelight a mother. In another land

our broken chord stretched far on the moors,

the flint of our tongue, the tinder, the coal,

hung in their black sacks our lungs sang

to the dead dark night of the child, too young

in her grave. We wore the eyes of the damned. 


Our biblical chant we took to the wars,

candled the lanterns to hopes of our home,

when Madame in her manor, high summer,

forgot. In our hallway of night, watched lights

in distant houses dream up their happinesses –

all the bells of Notre Dame – and mourned

in our trench, in our filth, in our lice,


for our spouses – their corpses – when our dead

stank the ground. Hometown was lonely that year.

Here, us, we never danced down promenades,

our arms like silver chimes. Our drip was slow

through time, gritted and gnarled, no child

never aspired to living to three. We got a VC.

And still died on the slump of our knees.


And in the candle of our last hour’s sleep, across

the moors and the mines, sit the ghosts

of our shanties long-crippled in time. The moon,

with his holy eye of light, still sits on his swing,

smoking his pipe. Here, at night, tell them we saw

the chasms and grey seascapes of fate, the cracks

in mankind, poverty’s shadows tall on the walls,

our dark graveside flowers all dead on the day

when our bones got up and, slowly, walked away.


Don’t say that our stars are forgotten today.


Don’t say I am nothing at all.



Laura Potts is twenty years old and lives in West Yorkshire. Twice-recipient of the Foyle Young Poets Award, her work has appeared in Agenda, Prole and Poetry Salzburg Review. Having worked at The Dylan Thomas Birthplace in Swansea, Laura was last year listed in The Oxford Brookes International Poetry Prize and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She also became one of The Poetry Business’ New Poets and a BBC New Voice for 2017. Laura’s first BBC radio drama aired at Christmas, and she received a commendation from The Poetry Society in 2018.



Ion Corcos

That Place

Paperbark trees, butcherbirds, 

a narrow path to the sea;

that place gone, like clouds.

Only I remain. The tree outside

my home does not exist here,

the grave my father is buried in

is far, as is my mother, who lives

in a small flat, gives love recklessly,

takes it away in madness,

her anger the venom of a snake.

Sometimes, it is too much.

I do not want to see it, the dead

and the yet dead; the weight of knowing.



Ion Corcos has been published in The High WindowAustralian Poetry JournalAllegroPanoply, and other journals. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. His first pamphlet, A Spoon of Honey (Flutter Press, 2018), is out now.

Jonathan Wilson


I saw rolling oceans in her eyes

And thought about drowning in them


I saw vines in her hair that stretched up to heaven

And tangled around the tallest trees

I wanted them to wrap around me


Her voice was smooth jazz that played all night long

In bars I would linger in till I was thrown out


Her mind the priceless artwork so valuable the public weren’t even allowed to see it

Still, I would risk stealing it


Her heart was the frozen lake I wanted to skate across

Knowing it could crack at any second


Her embrace was the snow that always melted too soon

Her face the singular snowflake


Her eyelashes rays of sun I stood under

And worried would burn me


So I went inside and closed the curtains



Jonathan is a Manchester-based writer and performance-poet studying Creative and Professional Writing at Bangor University. He has been published in a couple of poetry anthologies within Manchester. He is a core member of the spoken word collective Young Identity, a vibrant group of passionate young writers. With this group he has given readings across the country opening up for established writers and performers such as Saul Williams and before a Carol-Ann Duffy play- My country. 

Linda Opyr

In Noonday Sun

I walked the same sand, the same way

when I saw a turtle, both head and shell yellowgold.


His thick feet paddled the beach behind him

until he slipped into the greygreen mystery of water.


This is the gift of an open heart.

Not desire. Not fulfillment.


Not the spectacle of grandeur

where grandeur is known to be.


But seeing the life before us

and loving whatever we make of it


and all that we cannot.



Linda Opyr, the Nassau County Poet Laureate 2011-13, is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, The Atlanta Review, The Paterson Literary Review, Crannog and The New York Times. Poems of hers appear in the current issues of Poetry Ireland Review (125), edited by Eavan Bolan, and Antiphon. Four poems will appear in The Seventh Quarry, published in Wales, in 2019.

In 2017 she was a featured poet in the Bailieborough Poetry Festival, County Cavan.  The poet has also been featured in the 2012 Walking With Whitman Series at the Walt Whitman Birthplace and been a keynote speaker/poet at the New England Young Writers’ Conference at Bread Loaf.

Steven Ray Smith


Undiscovered green ferns beside green

mosses beside fallen trees and towering trees

with hosanna branches high up toward the blue,


except there is one old oak at the boundary with a rusted strand

of barbed wire eight inches into its heartwood, at least 50 years

ingrown, such that removal requires cutting down the whole trunk.


It is an eyesore in this primordial shelter, though

the squirrels that climb the deep bark furrows

to their drey high in its crown deftly sidestep


the lockjaw spurs without pause.

Neither do their pups asleep in the dense canopy 

second-guess that their nest is anything but the safest on earth.


Maybe the twanging fragment skewering its knot itches

the sapwood when the wind blows. Or maybe the cicatrix

is a handsome trophy of a lone sapling that thwarted the box-in


of the wildwoods, acorns still lying on the ground,

originality that required no improvement.  The fragment twangs on.

What was a fence has blown to oxy-dust.



Steven’s poetry has appeared in Slice, The Yale Review, Southwest Review, The Kenyon Review, New Madrid, Tar River Poetry, Flapperhouse and others. New work is forthcoming in Barrow Street, North Dakota Quarterly and Guesthouse. A complete list of publications is at He lives in Austin, Texas.

Orla Fay

The Elixir of Youth

When all the world’s a classroom

and all the world’s a stage

do you remember writing on the board

and writing on the page?


The newspaper indecipherable

spread broadsheet on the floor

the murmurings of language

behind another whispered door?


Apple, corn, feathered grass,

a breeze so warm flowers gasp,

a year its been since the last

when in my life I trespassed.


Everything was forever

and nothing ever changed

the world beyond the road’s turn

could be seen on summer days.


And now that I’ve crossed over

I long only to go back,

to cross that bridge we burned,

to travel in whipcrack.


Apple, corn, feathered grass,

a breeze so warm flowers gasp,

a year it’s been since the last

when in my life I trespassed.


The sun’s kiss parted

burned the moon’s face

in the waxing of the sovereign

the flame’s state of grace.


There is no map, there is no map,

the pendulum swings, to and fro

the hand of the clock cannot be stopped

her smiling face fool’s gold.



Orla Fay is the editor of Boyne Berries since issue 16. Recently her work has appeared in Honest UlstermanCrannógSkylight 47QuarrymanCyphers and is forthcoming in Poetry Ireland Review.  Her poem “North” has been long listed in the OTE New Writer of the Year Competition, 2018. She has just completed the MA in Digital Arts and Humanities at UCC for which she made She blogs at

Frances Browner; An Exile’s Dream 2003

An Exile’s Dream 2003

April’s breeze begins to blow
Through every nook and cranny
Young lads look for love
An exile is melancholy

He sees the Treaty Stone
The ghost of Drunken Thady
Crosses Thomond Bridge
Salutes the Bishop’s Lady

Enters King John’s Castle
An ugly slum of yore
Now a museum, a paean to
Limerick’s ancient lore

Rambles into the Cathedral
Forbidden in his boyhood
Frowns at a Leper’s Squint
Delights in the Misericords

Along O’Callaghan Strand
The River Shannon smiles
Behind a low stone wall from
Where he leapt as a child

On a day golden in memory
He swam back and forth at full tide
A rite of passage from little boy to
Boy. Boy to man denied

He surveys the lofty Barracks
Custom House with Hunt installs
Spans the new Abbey, charming
Sister to Humpback Baal’s

Strolling around Arthur’s Quay
At the end of a mystical Irish dusk
No better spot is the whisper
On the water, in the air, a hush

On an evening such as this
His ashes will float upon the foam
Above the invisible Curraghour Falls
And, he will be home.



Frances Browner was born in Cork; grew up in Dublin; spent twenty years in America, and now resides in Wicklow. Her short fiction & memoir pieces have appeared in magazines and short story anthologies, been short-listed for competitions and broadcast on radio. Poems have been published in the Examiner, the Ogham Stone, Poems on the Edge, the Limerick Poetry Trail and Skylight 47.

Ann Egan; Fuamnach Rages Against Etain & Fuamnach Banishes Etain

Fuamnach Rages Against Etain


Etain has outdone me again.

After all the trouble I went to

getting that wind from the ocean,

to keep her on the move,


forever out of Midir’s life.

I was sure it had worked.

Worth all the price I’d paid

for magic of the wind’s force


to loan itself for my wishes.

Seven years’ peace I’ve had,

now it’s started up again.

Making her into a moth seemed a solution.


Who was to know her beauty,

blast it all, her sweetness would shine

through the garb of a good old moth

you’d barely see of an evening?


Shine through they did, enchanted

my Midir, all over again, even more

than her woman form and her style,

her bangles and her wiles.


She was rescued, of course,

after her seven years’ buffeting

from  rock to tree, beam to bush.

He gathered her in like an infant,


beneath his cape, brought her home,

there she dwells in a crystal bower.

He has all purple flowers he can muster,

about his house, he’s into gardening now,


His darling fly must be kept happy.

He goes out in dusk, gathers herbs

of her preferred fragrance at dew fall,

bears them home for her delectation.


What have I done to deserve all this?

The wind wrecks ships on oceans.

How could it not do the same

for me to one simple moth?


Fuamnach Banishes Etain

That’s the very last I’ll see of her,

There’ll be no torment after this for me.

I’ve lined up the best of help.

I’ll make sure my third attempt


to move Etain from my life won’t fail.

They’ll guide my every wish,

seven years of a moth’s banishment

will turn to a thousand.


Who could tell I’d get such bother

from a moth, one good clatter of a twig

would do for any amount of them.

I’ve had it up to my ears with her.


There’s no peace for me in Brí Leith

where I’ve loved to be for so long.

She changed all that turning up

that morning on Midir’s arm.


I thought I had all sorted,

with a good fire, a pool of water,

a worm and a fly, an incantation.

Instead it’s happening again.


I call upon earth and wind,

I call on three seers of the seas,

come to me in all your powers,

blow this moth of seven years


across hills and bogs,

mountains and meadows.

Let no peace fall upon her,

bear her far from Fuamnach of Brí Leith.