*Featured image courtesy of David Sinclair on Unsplash* Jonathan Lloyd joins us with captivating descriptions and a refreshing style that will keep you engaged through all three of his poems. The old man from Wales gyascutus picks his way through the bramble thorns on his way to pub. His knee bothers. The beer warm. The company chatty. The rain. The window–fogged. The old man walks home through the bramble across bogs, underneath bright spilled sky. The field a rimfull of misty heaven; the thorns’ lesson slumbers, all light, the window hindsight clear year on to yesteryear. There’s no word for snow in Inuit– that’s baloney. Must be fifty. Yet the Greeks did not have a word for word. And they wrote them alltogetherlikethis and then .sihtekilrehtegotlla The Germans just stick stuff together to make a…

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