Alison Lock

Alison Lock is a poet and author living in West Yorkshire. She finds inspiration in the moorlands and the natural environment of the South Pennines, often reflected in her writing, but she is also influenced by her childhood home of the West Country.

Her previous poetry collections are A Slither of Air (2011) and Beyond Wings (2015), publishedby Indigo Dreams Publishing. She has written short stories – Above the Parapet (2013) – and is the author of a fantasy novella, Maysun and the Wingfish  (MothersMilkBooks 2016).

She has an MA in Literature Studies.

These fresh and vivid poems are written from a combination of an acute observer’s eye and a reflective, often spiritual insight.  Although meanings may emerge and interpretations are sometimes floated, the poet always remains mindful of the ineffable primacy of encounter and experience.

Steve Ely

 Alison Lock’s poems are landscape made language. With close attention to form and sound, rhythm and rhyme, she thoughtfully observes and interprets her environment, both its terrain and the birds and beasts, trees and wildflowers that share it. This collection is a testimony to the poetic skills of a sensitive watcher of the world.

Bob Horne

Watching the Flames at the Village Bonfire

At the waxing of the Hunter’s Moon we are firefly                                                                                    dancing until brazed. We will retreat,                                                                                                                faint shadows rejoicing in the final cry.

At the passing of months, our souls to fortify,                                                                                                   we light the pyre of memories bittersweet;                                                                                                          at the waxing of the Hunter’s Moon we are firefly.

At our backs the chill of the hoar frost is close by,                                                                                      ready to strike the land in a flash, a beat,                                                                                                         faint shadows rejoicing in the final cry.

The cinders are stars, constellations drift by                                                                                                     the peel of the moon, a crescent of sleet;                                                                                                             at the waxing of the Hunter’s Moon we are firefly.

A silver birch bears witness under a leafless sky,                                                                          emboldened before the flaming fleet,                                                                                                              faint shadows rejoicing in the final cry.

As we carry the light into the new day,                                                                                                                the winter’s curse we will unseat.                                                                                                                            At the waxing of the Hunter’s Moon we are firefly,                                                                                        faint shadows rejoicing in the final cry.