I’ve been delighted by the response to the Counting Magpies Limited Edition. In just three days over a third of the books have been ordered and are ready to go to the post office on Monday morning. There is even one bound for Wisconsin, USA!

The limited edition comes complete with signature, three bonus poems, and each book is numbered. I have also included a handwritten poem, either in the front or the back of the anthology – you can choose the poem, or have a lucky dip surprise!

The limited edition is £10 and £2.50p&p for the UK. If you are outside the UK the postage will vary – I will inform you of the cost to make sure you are happy 🙂

If you would like a copy please let me know.

So last night, this happened.

At what point have I invited attention here? Or is it the case that I’ve got my head down, keys between my fingers in my pocket, ignoring my boyfriend’s text messages lest I become distracted and vulnerable, trying to simply get the fuck home? It doesn’t matter, because as a woman on the street – a public space and by default a male space – I’m fair game.

The narrative between my female friends and I is tedious and exhausting. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that’, we say with almost weekly-regularity. ‘That’s shit’. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘At least you got home safe’. At least you got home safe. Like the entirely feasible and almost unsurprising alternative is not getting home safe, and if you’re aware of my back story you’ll know that actually, not getting home safe is a very real and possible…

Flitting
by Alex Carr-Malcolm

The birds ceased to sing
from the day we were condemned.
Our underpinning corroded,
pulling the floor from under us,
everything subsided, along with our dreams.

The floors had started to slope,
and the cracks no longer hidden.

My beautiful childhood home —
Twenty-two rooms, orchards, greens, woods,
and a church at the bottom of the garden.

I kissed the cross, and all four walls,
before my dreams were demolished.

Re-housed in a flat-line estate
council regulation green and avocado,
five rooms and no soul,
the transistor, tinny tune,
Where’s your Mama gone?
echoing in my heart.

PHOTO: Hazlehurst, Hasland, Derbyshire — The author’s childhood home.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My mother was a caretaker of a beautiful Georgian house — once a vicarage. It was a day centre for ex-miners who had been disabled at work; it was also offices for the Coalite Company (Ciswo)…