David Clode Nightjars2.jpg


Poet: Judith Green

A nightjar will come,


churr at an intruder

and your heart spawns

an eldritch fear in familiar woods.


You had forgotten the nightjars.


This solstice day, you celebrate,

observe from dawn ancient ordered rites

but even then, you feel a sham,

hamstrung by the Underground, 

the day off work, the  nagging urge of time.


The churr, unidentified,

shot you,

alone in the trees,

left you to bleed.


Judith Green has had various successes in Myslexia and in major competitions, notably, the Wells. She contributes to Macmillan Educational Anthologies and teaches creative writing.Recently disabled, she finds writing an escape that dissipates the anger and frustration