Cirencester Scene

December 2018

Somewhere Else Writers now have a slot in Cirencester Scene, a monthly magazine delivered to 12,000 homes in the Cirencester area.


Poetry by Frank McMahon


Early Morning Frost

Frost across the ground, a magpie

sitting on the bare fretwork of an oak;

a shaft of sunlight warms my neck

and brightens on the shrunken pond

its meagre lid of rime.


Shifts, movements

in the ice-melt, a subtle agitation

of familiar patterns,

like roles recast in domestic spaces

boundaries contested and redrawn.


I move to gain another view,

folding what I see into silence.



Letters inscribed in air; branches

write the seasons and their fickle

variations, shredding coherence

as they thresh and whine, blasts and rants

of leaves and barren seeds.


Gift of the wasp’s gall: indelible

tales from the oak’s heart and hearing;

grand hotel and shelter, shade for

transient languor. Acorn fall.

Sap retreats slow to reticence.


Meditation   under   rimed sky,

the hermit’s calligraphy spread

across the crystal sheet, utterance

of promise laid in autumn’s scatter.


The year turns; dew-varnished beech glints

with angled light. Decipher the forest’s

library: curlicues unfurling

on spring-dancing branches, stickiness

and insect hum, in April’s breeze

the Book of Kells unscrolling.



Running round and round the rim of excitement;

the old cauldron found and burnished bright,

simmering with wishes and bubbling soft,

like hoof beats through winter clouds, the hovering

hush while a door is opened,

the soft press of gifts around the festive

tree with timeless care, the whisper of

the closing door. A tug on reins, then

starlight returns to the sleeping house.