No Entry to Persons with Conditions of the Heart! Jesus, they mean it yours kicks like a foetus as

  pressure washing   Born in 1963 in West Hartlepool, Martin Malon e now lives in Warwickshire. A winner of the 2011 Straid Poetry Award and the 2012 Mirehouse Prize , his first full collection – The Waiting Hillside - is published by Templar Poetry. Currently studying for a Ph.D in poetry at Sheffield University, he edits The Interpreter’s House poetry journal
No Entry to Persons with Conditions of the Heart! Jesus, they mean it yours kicks like a foetus as you labour up the staircase, a dark helix quarried into the granite. Tunnels narrow to capillaries daylight s so distant it must be fiction. Scusi! Pardon . A school party shuffles down; Reeboks rasp on stone.
Then a ghost, shawled pressure washing in hessian, ices your shoulder; George Eliot, last seen here 1861; still on her leisurely Grand Tour, busy plotting Romola , she glides through our backpacks, pressure washing cameras, I Heart Italy hats. She fills the tunnel, her crinoline brushing both walls as she scans each sandal-worn flight like a sentence, ascending turn by turn into the Renaissance.
You reach the roof together. To you, everyday anarchy unspools below: tourists whirl in the piazza s bonfire; phone-wires pressure washing thrum as the wind warbles off-key; whereas Eliot, abstracted, gazes into a grid as old as print, binds a city-state between the covers of her memory a mind-set republic that scorched heretics but bankrolled the painters of angels.   (published in Obsessed with Pipework and Rain Dancers in the Data Cloud , Templar 2012)  
iii Malaga at night: a cluster of wet diamonds tossed on blue velvet.     Richard has published pressure washing three novels, all with Faber & Faber. His poetry collection, the light user scheme , is published by Smokestack.           Archipelago by Magda Kapa
    Magda Kapa was born in Greece, lives and teaches in Germany, writes in English, and tweets micropoetry as @MagdaKapa , some of it published online in qarrtsiluni .             Samuel pressure washing Beckett Facing the Sea at Benidorm by Conor Kelly
1 to watch a monument in flowered trunks and franciscan sandals turn from the lighted town and look beyond the sun-tanned swimmers and the wind surfers and the pleasure boats and a distant yacht on the far horizon pressure washing
is to hold your breath for as long as the dust settles on the crest of a wave causing no more of an eddy than a life any life ebbing away into an incurious darkness where no stars shudder and no voice speaks
on a fluttering handkerchief, scarf, glove - wherever you are, travel safe, my love.       Carole Bromley teaches Creative Writing for York University and writes a poetry blog here           Up St. Agnes Beacon in August by Sue Dymoke
For all we know the Giant s wife might still be collecting rocks in her huge apron rocks for barrows rocks to send thudding down the hillside. She is shrouded in thickening fog goes about her business uninterrupted.
The unseen sights add to the other sights we haven t seen through the fine mist on our lenses: adders basking on the dry heath; stretches of sand in day-long sun; families relaxed in the certainty of summer.
Our car is not visible from here lost below where it is less chilly where we will not have to fasten kagoules so tightly where sunglasses just might be needed briefly by late afternoon.     (from Moon at the Park and Ride , Shoestring Press, 2012)     Sue Dymoke ‘s latest collection Moon at the Park and Ride is published by Shoestring pressure washing Press .     pressure washing       Old Man of the Sea by Russell Jones
He parks up like he isn’t going anywhere, gives a Medusa glare to the promenade, the offish B&Bs, the adults at the two-pence arcades on a Tuesday afternoon. Stroking his five-decade beard, he takes out a fountain pen and swats the carrion from his letter head.
Dear Sir/Madam, I write to inform on the current state of Blackpool, Brighton, Bognor, Bournemouth, Bridlington, Bispham, Burnham on Sea. What a state, what disrepute, what disrespect; a deplorable dereliction of society.
His wrist moves as though commanded pressure washing by the sea. And slowly, he begins to leak: first his eyes. Then his nose pours, and his ears. His neck and shoulders gush like geysers, an ocean erupts from his trousers. Within seconds all that’s left is a grey page and a car, full to the sunroof, of saltwater.     (published in Harbour , Dunbar Wee Festival of Words, 2013)     Russell Jones is an Edinburgh-based writer ( The Last Refuge and Spaces of Their Own ), editor ( Where Rockets Burn Through ) and researcher.           The Names of Things Unseen For Ethan by Kate Garrett
You discover new spots on our adventures: Abergele, Deganwy, Prestatyn, Colwyn Bay, Betws-y-Coed, Llandudno Pier, Conwy Castle. You and your brothers pirates and knights