The hedge was dense and green through summer, and at the end hung with red and black, luscious gemmed and fluttering with wings when soft-voiced birds flit, feasting.
And at the end, hung with red and black, the sumptuous banners of a forgotten king, blackberried and spiked, autumn builds its ramparts,
luscious-gemmed and fluttering with wings. Turning vines drape purple grapes in gold leaf, hand-prints across the green of oak and elm.
When soft-voiced birds flit, feasting on hips and haws and plump purple, I know the winter king will soon be holding court.
These days of open fields and gentle skies, flocked with birds and golden flakes, when poplars whisper through their thinning leaves, I look about the blue and empty space to see who creeps the meadow, to see who speaks.
Not a literary magazine for ordinary times, but a journal for an exceptional one. Writing the pandemic, together. Image, Somewhere in Time by Hengki Lee: Instagram @hengki_lee