Dung Beetle

by Ann Drysdale Here he comes, dribbling singlemindedly, concentrating, keeping control of the ball. And there he goes down the wing, the wing actual, the wing ...

Choughed

by Mark Totterdell Thrift and soft grasses have made me a mattress beneath the high overhang’s dark rocky buttress. Two choughs are feeding, each crimson bill p...

Monarch

by Caitlin Stobie Black-veined orange, the Latin proves it: yours is a regal species. But now you’re dead centre in an unmoving wiper (I, driver, was too late t...

Blackbird

by Kathy Miles In his stern black feathers he swifts from elm or oak to claim his patch of seed. His song drips into sluggish veins, the fluency of music, as bl...

Swīn

by Philippe Atherton-Blenkiron “Pigs […] are leading pretty miserable lives.” – Peter Singer I exist under a pink sky; a canopy of blankets lined with caricatur...