- Mar 21
- 21 min read
A Note from the Editors . . .
Following our Fall Issue ‘Autumn Shifting’, we once again return to our 2024-2025 ‘Seasons’ series to present you with a collection of pieces focused on rebirth, vibrancy, and the monumental change we all feel as the Earth bursts once again through the frosts of Winter.
Within this issue you will find pieces which exemplify both overwhelming vibrancy and the small slips back into grey which this time of year brings; we move from the whimsical to the concrete, sorrow to joy, up and down again. You will read about glimmering ruby eyes and scales, fields painted in all manner of flora and fauna, and grey roiling waves and shadowed underworlds all the same.
Once again, this issue has really proved to us that imagery as simple as cyclical seasonal phenomena can conjure an intense and wide-reaching variety of responses from the creative mind. We’re excited for you to experience that breadth too.
Again, a thanks to our lecturers, staff, and all of our supporters and readers, we couldn’t have done it without you. Only a few months ago the ‘two issues and a book’ proposition seemed just a little bit like a pipe dream, one that we weren’t entirely sure how to approach. Now with two of the three accomplishments under our belt, we couldn’t be more proud.
Happy reading!
Chantae Davies and Jamie Vincent
Editor-in-Chief(s) at The Flock
Contents . . .
Chloe by Cara Goldstone
Longing For Winter by Brooke Pothecary
Winter Rabbit by Benjamin Madhavan
The Court of Seasons by Harry McMail
Take a Breath by Isabella Evans
The Awakening of ‘Y Ddraig Goch’ by Jack Grace Rogers
Clovers Call by Anais Brimble
Small Lies by Naomi Davies
Dawn of the Spring, The Gateway to Summer by Chloe Summers
Featuring Photography By. . .
Beth Tomney, Blinding Darkness, Reflections of Summer & Shepherds Delight
‘Beth Tomney is a Scottish musician who enjoys travel photography. She has enjoyed travelling since a young age and a lot of her inspiration comes from capturing the hidden beauties in her everyday life, whether that be in her Scottish hometown or her favourite parts of rural Spain that she spent her summers in as a child. She is also a music reviewer and is an avid collector of physical media.’
You can find Beth on instagram @booksandtunes_x
Brian Michael Barbeito Phantasmagoria Travels
‘Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer. He is the author of the prose poem and photo book, Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through (Dark Winter Press, 2024).’
‘Chloe Summers is a 26-year-old English and Creative Writing student from Blackwood, South Wales, hoping to have her work published. Chloe writes stories, is an amateur photographer, and enjoys reading all types of books, regardless of genre. Chloe began writing at a young age as a way to escape into a world she imagined and created.'
You can read more from Chloe in Buzz Magazine: The Play That Goes Wrong review: a laugh riot in Cardiff - Buzz Magazine'
Sam Scurlock Spring
‘I’m Sam Scurlock. I was born in Penarth but I’ve moved around a lot since then. I first started getting into photography a few years ago, around 2021, when I began producing artwork for my music projects. Music artworks and videos are my primary inspiration, specifically the work of Brian Griffin and Vaughn Oliver. I also draw inspiration from surrealist photography and interwar futurist art I.e. El Lissitsky, Anton Bragaglia and the aesthetics of the Bauhaus movement.’
You can find Sam on Instagram @deux_ombres_photography
Emily Pettican Blue Lagoon & Secret Beach.
‘Hello my name is Emily, I am currently studying for my A Levels. I have always appreciated nature for its beauty and have wanted to capture that within my photographs, I only use my mobile phone to capture my photos with little editing. I truly believe humans and nature are so connected but we never realise it'.
Chloe
By Cara Goldstone
Yes, your basement is flooded.
The hail has scraped your cheeks raw;
even the birds have flown away,
fearing the wind,
the sound.
But look how the clouds retreat
over the lake. Rest storm-worn
on wet sand and look
for the stars as the
sky starts to clear.
Thunder howls on the horizon
of angry, tired waves. Your
face is raw. But the basement
will drain. The lightning
will melt
into dawn.
‘Cara Goldstone is a photographer and poet originally from Nolensville, Tennessee. She is currently studying creative writing in Lake Forest, Illinois; her work can be found in Unbroken Journal, Red Ogre Review, and Tusitala literary magazine.’
You can find her other work on her personal blog conspystery.substack.com
Longing for Winter
By Brooke Pothecary
Hell rises from below as Spring makes her descent,
Winter adorns the Earth and Hades basks in his enjoyment.
A lonely heart does cause the death of all,
Trees once full wearing coats of green,
Shiver as cold seeps through their branches,
Weakening their souls.
Their leaves fall to the ground collectively,
Withering away,
Reapers, they are now, and people grieve their final stay.
Persephone, betrayed like Eve in Eden –
Though a snake does bite, it is nature written –
Curses love and all it claims in its name,
Taking, taking, taking,
All for another person’s gain.
Mourning her world, she falls to her knees.
‘Hades, on the Fates, please!’
‘My Dearest Persephone, love is never free.
Forget about the others and think only of me.’
To which the poets say that love heals all,
So then can love heal love’s own wound in her soul?
The abyss in her chest where her heart once laid,
Can love perch in its place and promise there to forever stay?
But promises … are they kept?
When made under love, do they not lead to regret?
Are promises under love to be taken as truth,
Or are they mutterings of a love-sick fool?
When her arms cripple under the burden of the heavens,
Is it love that finds her on her knees,
Scrambling to pick up the fragments that once appeased?
The heavens like glass to touch,
Like a rose whose thorns overcome its beauty,
Bleed.
Can love rid of love’s own destruction,
And plant flowers in Hades’ Eden?
To which the poets say that love heals all,
She counters the poets and says,
‘Love is a moth that tears through my soul.’
In search of light as winter does too,
That moth finds no sun, only winter’s full moon.
As first frost kisses a reaper’s hand,
Like first love kisses her soul,
She sees the light of summer fade further away
And mourns the endless cold.
Beneath that which glistens like stars,
Are scars from winter’s betrayal.
The trees didn’t ask to be reapers;
She didn’t ask for love’s false portrayal.
‘Brooke Pothecary is a Welsh romance writer who is passionate about exploring the complexities of love in her work. She has recently started experimenting with writing poetry after years of novel writing. When she’s not taking pen to paper, you’ll find her with her head in a book, cuddled up with her dog, Luna, or watching romcoms, fawning over every love interest.’
Her poetry can be found on instagram @poetrybylevi or you can follow her day to day on @brooke_levi2511.
Winter Rabbit
By Benjamin Madhavan
The old man moved his hands away from the fire and leaned back in his chair. He picked up a novel with an elephant on the front cover from the table next to him. He put on his circle-lensed glasses and flicked through the pages. Oh, what page was it again? he thought. She’d remember it for me, I know she would’ve. ‘ “You should use a bookmark,” ’ he mimicked in a high pitched voice. I can remember it; I just need to find the right page.
Outside the window, amidst the clumps of snow, a white rabbit sat in front of an oakwood tree. The rabbit’s eyes flourished in red. The hell? he thought. He placed the novel on the table and sat up from his chair. He looked above the fireplace, and resting on a pair of antlers was an old rifle. It had a large scope, and the butt splintered around the edges.
The old man withdrew the rifle and leant it against the front door. He grabbed his woolly coat from a hook and put it on. He opened the front door, and he heard a clang as the rifle fell onto the floor. ‘Damn,’ he said, bending down to pick up the rifle.
He groaned as he got back up with the rifle under his arm. He opened the door once again and closed it behind him. The doorknob felt like ice, which reminded him to reach into his coat pockets and put on his leather gloves. He adjusted the rifle into his hands and set out. The old man’s boots imprinted the snow and crunched as he moved. That rabbit, he thought, where is that rabbit?
He ventured into the forest. Something moved behind one of the trees. There were bullet holes and scrapes scared on the bark. A rabbit with ruby eyes hopped out from behind it. Its nose twitched and sniffed the ground. There you are, he thought. ‘Bouncing bastard.’
The old man crouched down, groaning as his knees creaked. He rested his belly onto the snow and shivered as the snow pressed against his lower half. He brought the rifle’s up against his shoulder and squinted into the scope. The rabbit filled his whole vision. The rabbits body blended with the snow. Its bleeding eyes were the only thing he could see. ‘Red, red, red. Just stay there, bunny boy,’ he said.
The rabbit casually hopped out of sight. ‘Huh? Where’d you?’ the old man said as he lifted himself from the scope. The rabbit was nowhere to be seen. Those beacon eyes didn’t shine anywhere.
The old man heaved himself from the ground and his glasses shook off from his face. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said, and took a step forward. A crunch came from under his foot. He bent down to pick up his glasses with its newly formed shattered glass and arm that had snapped in two. ‘Hmm, now that’s not good. Not good at all.’ He put the remains into his back pocket and continued.
Everything became blurry without his glasses and so had the shapes of the trees. It was impossible to consistently follow the rabbit’s tracks through the snow, all he needed to do was look out for red, but instead he noticed something purple underneath one of the trees.
He got close enough to touch it. It wasn’t purple from this distance; it was a flower with bright blue petals and a butter rosette that slept in the middle. ‘What’re you doing all the way here?’ he said, caressing the fuzzy petals. ‘What’s it called again? I can’t remember.’ He looked ahead and there were a few batches of the same flower. That false purpleness could be seen through the blur. And amongst one of the batches of flowers he could see the glaring red eyes on that camouflaged body. The rabbit plucked the petals and tore it to pieces in its mouth.
The old man stalked it and leaned up against one of the trees. ‘I see you,’ he said. ‘I see you now.’ Once again, he aimed the rifle. ‘Hungry, hungry boy.’ He squinted his eye in and out of the scope, struggling to focus on the rabbit. It was difficult to keep the rifle from swaying as the tree failed to hold it steady. He tried to bend down but instead rubbed his knees in exhaustion.
He lowered the rifle. It was hard to make out what kind of animal it was without his glasses. It was rare to see such a rabbit, let alone any rabbit in this weather. He got closer to the rabbit. Those red eyes probably couldn’t see very well, but those ears could still hear, so he took extra caution with each step.
It still didn’t stop his boots from crunching into the snow. The old man felt like he was stepping on eggshell after eggshell. This may be my only chance to nail it for good, he thought. Eat away, fella, just eat away. He brought the rifle to his hip. Alright, wabbit, he thought. You force me to come all the way out here, I’m gonna finish you, western style. He squeezed the rifle’s trigger.
The trigger clicked.
Oh, he thought, it’s not loaded. The rabbit hopped away. The flower was left half-eaten with one petal dangling off with a bite mark. The old man looked around. Now, he thought, where is the way home?
‘Benjamin Madhavan is a Welsh, multiracial writer who writes on a variety of different subjects. Whether it’s following characters of a different gender or ethnicity, he is inspired by his mixed heritage to research other cultures and to accurately depict human nature. His big inspiration will forever be Stephen King with his realistic characters, prolificness, and go with the flow attitude towards writing.’
You can find him on Instagram @benji.mad
The Court of Seasons
By Harry McMail
The Summer Queen sat on her throne; the brilliant light shone through the stained-glass windows, filling the grand hall with colour. Her throne was on a pedestal, allowing her a clear view of the whole court and its architecture. Lapis-encrusted arches were held up by stunning marble pillars with golden inlays depicting summer flowers and fauna.
The large double doors at the end of the hall swung open, the natural yellow light of the sun flooded in. A squatted figure with rabbit ears dressed in the courtly regalia of sharp whites and clean blues; the figure made powerful strides towards the Summer Queen. When he reached the throne, he bent the knee and said, ‘Your majesty, the preparations for the pass over have been completed.’ The half rabbit half man raised his head, eyes full of sadness. ‘Summer is over.’
The Summer Queen let what her servant said hang in the air for a moment, before she gave him a smile. ‘Gwyn, please, join me for one last walk around the garden.’ Her voice resonated like a beautiful harp song, she rose from the throne and appeared to float down the steps. She placed a gentle, motherly hand on Gwyn’s shoulder, and nodded towards the double doors and walked towards them.
*
The summer sun hung heavy on the horizon; its light brought out the colour of the array of flowers that the garden held. Gwyn and the Summer Queen walked down the well-worn stone path in a comfortable silence. As they walked Gwyn looked up to his queen’s face with her soft features, shimmering green eyes and flowing blonde hair. The sight of his queen would usually put any nerves or unease he had to rest, but not that day. The Summer Queen noticed Gwyn and turned her head to meet his eyes and smiled at him. Gwyn returned the smile, but it wasn’t a genuine one like hers was.
‘Even though you smile, Gwyn, your eyes are unhappy. What troubles you?’ said the Summer Queen with her songlike voice.
He looked away from her to the path in front of him and said, ‘Yes, your majesty my heart is heavy. The pass over is always a hard time, but this summer was so prosperous and watching it end is particularly difficult for me.’
The Summer Queen looked up at the sun and said, ‘Yes, it is hard, but we cannot last forever. Like everything else in creation, we have our time, then we must move on. The Autumn Lord is a good man, not as harsh as the Warden of Winter or as fragile as the Lady of Spring. We are lucky to have him follow us.’
‘The Autumn Lord is a good man, but call me selfish, I believe the world is happiest when it is summer. When the sun warms the grass, and the sky is a clear blue. I wish you could rule forever and not have to pass anything over,’ Gwyn said, his sadness growing within him.
‘Your thoughts are not selfish, Gwyn. I also wish the summer could last forever. But the world needs balance, if one season does not do the pass over, the world could be in danger. Summer must end. Do not be sad that it is over, be happy that is has happened and look forward to the future.’
Gwyn looked up at the Summer Queen and she looked at him, again gave him one of her motherly smiles and he smiled back, a smile of joy. ‘Thank you, your majesty. I may not be happy about it, but as you say, I must be grateful and look to the future.’
‘Your sadness is valid, I am sad myself, but we will come back, the sun will warm the grass again. Now we must return, I have a feeling the Autumn Lord is waiting.’
Gwyn nodded; both went back to the grand hall.
*
As they returned, the Summer Queen saw two figures waiting outside the double doors to the grand hall. One was tall, with powerful broad shoulders, long flowing hair that was a deep orange but was also greying at the edges. The other figure was much shorter, pointy squirrel ears stuck out of the top of the figure's head and a bushy tail protruded from their lower back.
Both figures were in the tight-fitting regal clothes of the Autumn Lord and his court. The Summer Queen and Gwyn got closer and as they did, the Autumn Lord and his aid turned and raised a hand to greet them. The Summer Queen reached the grand hall.
The Autumn Lord offered his hand which the Summer Queen took.
‘I apologise for not being here, Autumn Lord, I just wished for one last walk around the garden with Gwyn.’
The Autumn Lord smiled and said, ‘It is no issue, Summer Queen, I do the same before I must pass over to the Warden.’ He gestured to the double doors. ‘Please, after you.’
‘Harry McMail is an aspiring writer and a half decent bassist from Godreaman. Currently studying English Literature and Creative writing, he hopes to be able to pay a mortgage with it one day.’
You can read more on his Substack harrymcmail.substack.com
Take a Breath
By Isabella Evans
All at once
The air smells sweet with morning dew
You watch as the sun greets
The turned heads of the sunflowers
‘Wake up,’ it tells them
‘It is time to start anew’
Reluctantly, they listen
Turning, letting her rays lift them up where they did once cower
And in no time, they are themselves again
Beautifully delicate and bright
It isn’t long until the wind starts to whisper
Its voice speaking directly to you
‘Come child,’ it says
‘You know the time is right’
‘Take a breath, soft and slow
And step into the light’
‘Isabella is a queer, neurodivergent, and disabled writer from the South Wales valleys. Her main focus is non-fiction, which centres around her own experience with being subjected to and overcoming adversity in her childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. This is her first published work. She is looking to build a community within the industry and hopefully get more of her work off the ground.’
You can follow her Instagram, Tiktok, and Substack blog for more insight: @welshiewrites.
The Awakening of ‘Y Ddraig Goch’
By Jack Grace Rogers
I grew up on the story of the red and white dragons of Dinas Emrys, how a young Merlin and King Vortigern’s actions helped the red dragon defeat the white dragon, becoming the iconic symbol of Wales. My mother would read it to me nearly every night.
When I was a teenager, we started hiking up to Dinas Emrys every spring. It became a tradition, one that we’d look forward to all year. Even after she had died, I still went on my own. I would never let this tradition die with her.
This year was different though. Since the start of the year, strange occurrences had been happening on the hill of Dinas Emrys. Trembles in the ground, rain only pouring on the hill, flowers growing at a spectacular rate and wild animals flocking to the hill, who would normally hide away and avoid people but now wandered around them on the hill but continued to ignore them. Environmentalists and agriculturists put it down to climate change. The people still following druidism proclaimed that it was a sign; a sign of a new world for Wales, or as they were insisting it to be called by the world, Cymru. Naturally, most people disregarded their theories, there were some who believed them . But there was some, like me, who, while not believing the story, wanted it to be true.
My hike took me right to the bottom of the hill where the legends said the red dragon was sleeping. The image of the brightly coloured tulips, daffodils, pansies and a bundle of other flowers I didn’t recognise; mainly because some of them never usually grew in this spot. They grew out from the ground up the slope, wrapping around it. The stories were true. Nature was truly taking back the lands with flowers. I couldn’t help but smile, thinking of mum. She would’ve loved to see this; nature engrossing the lands.
As I continued to walk further up the hill slope, my name was called,‘Anwen.’
I turned back around. An elderly man was stood a few feet away. Somehow, he had managed to get so close without making a sound. The man was pale, with long white hair and a long beard which flowed down to his waist. He wore a brown cloak, covering his body and his hood up over his head, but I could still see his ancient looking face. Keeping the robes together was a brooch in the shape of a leaf.
‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Who are you, how do you know my name?
The man took a step closer to me. ‘You know where you stand.’
‘Course I do. I come here every year,’ I said. ‘Are you one of those druids? I know what you’ve been saying about the hill. As much as I want it to be true─’
‘The story is unimportant now. For it will not be such a thing much longer,’ the man said in a hushed tone, as if trying not wake someone up. ‘Anwen. Your appearance here is most peculiar. No man or woman would be able to step foot here.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘That must mean you are destined to be here. To witness this,’ he said, and walked further up the hill and past me. He glanced back to look at me. ‘Come, child. It will begin soon. I want you to witness the nature take place beforehand.’
He continued up the hill. I looked across the grasslands, checking to see if anyone else was around; but no one, just me and this old man. If this was anywhere else, I would’ve turned and left him alone. But right here, right now, I felt completely safe with him. I felt safer than I’d felt since I was a young girl, wrapped up in bed with my mother reading me a story. I followed him up the hill. I reached the top and stood next to him. The flowers continued to grow, now joined by rabbits hopping through the flowers. A flock of sheep meandered their way around them, while a leash of foxes played with them. A cete of badgers was trying to burrow into the hill, to no avail. A dray of squirrels ran through the blades of grass and flowers.
‘It’s… oh my God, it’s beautiful,’ I said. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I couldn’t even blink, I didn’t dare miss a second of this. The old man chuckled softly next to me. ‘Why… how has this happened?’
‘You’ll see, young one. Any minute.’
The ground beneath my feet began to tremble. It started out as a gentle vibration but quickly grew heavier and rougher. The animals all jolted down the slope of the hill in different directions. The old man held onto my arm to stop me from falling. ‘Come on,’ he said, and he held onto me as we ran back down the slope to the bottom. We stopped next to the sheep.
The violent tremble of the ground grew louder, as if the Earth itself was cracking. The man kept a tight hold of me, while he seemed completely unphased by it. In fact, he seemed to be smiling. ‘What’s happening?!’ I called out, trying to speak over the ground’s thunderous quake.
‘The start of something new,’ he said through a laugh. He pointed at the top of the hill, and I looked up.
Thick cracks begun spreading up the hill slope. I quickly covered my ears as the sudden and deafening noise of the hill ripping open filled the grasslands and hills. Dirt was flown into the air, but it all seemed to miss falling on us and the animals. The old man laughed, raising his arms up. ‘Behold, child! Behold the jewel of Cymru!’
Atop the hill, a red creature erupted from a cloud of the ground; colours of the dirt, the grass and the flowers. Flapping sheets of crimson, a sharp horned face, scales shining like a body of rubies . A being three times the size of the hill itself. It stayed above the hill, letting out deep breaths of smoke. The ground laid still. I looked up at this creature, this dragon. The beauty of it was breathtaking. It looked over its lands of fields and mountains and castles, and of people. The people of its country. Of their country.
‘Cyfarchion, fy hen ffrind!’ the old man bellowed, moving closer in front of me. ‘Greetings, my old friend! Now is the time! Time for your renewal! For a new Cymru! For a new age of Cymru! The red dragon inspires action!’
The red dragon’s heavy call echoed across the country. A call for change; a call for its rebirth, and for theirs. ‘Mae'n ein amser ni! Thered dragon roared across the land. ‘It is our time! Pleidiol wyf i'm gwlad!’
The old man lowered his hood as the dragon raised further up into the sky. We both watched, a smile etched onto my own face. The tears escaped my eyes and flowed down my cheeks, the tears of pride. The hope for a new beginning. I watched the dragon fly across the fields and forests. It soared higher with each second, until it flew out of sight into the clouds, bringing me back down to Earth.
The old man walked past me. His hood back up over his head, walking the same direction the red dragon went. Behind him were the animals, following him at their own pace, and atop his shoulder sat a squirrel. Together, they all walked across the field as one.
‘Jack Grace Rogers is currently studying English Literature and Creating Writing at Treforest campus, aspiring to become a scriptwriter upon graduating. He has an interest in writing prose, with hopes to potentially publish short stories. Jack was born and raised in the Valleys and has always had a fascination with the history of Wales and its fairy tales. He felt he should write about them for his piece, taking the fairytale of the iconic Welsh red dragon.’
You can find him on BlueSky @jackgrrogers.bsky.social
Clovers Call
By Anais Brimble
Upon the field where green is spread,
In April’s light, so soft, so thin,
The clovers rise, their edges red,
A sea of phantoms, pale within.
No hand has brushed, no tear has fallen,
Yet something stirs—a breath, a pause.
A wound of blue, November swept,
A ghost of four hands, a silent cause.
‘Do you seek me?’ the clover calls,
‘A fleeting dream, a trick of sight?
A hollow wish, a name undone,
A thing that time has starved of light?’
It twists and turns, its form unwinds,
Its voice like whispers on the breeze:
‘This wound is old, this tale is worn,
A thread unravelled, a love reborn.
What you have lost, what you have wept,
Is neither more nor less than kept.
Does Spring not rise from earth’s decay?
Can love not bloom and fade away?’
The ground gives way beneath my feet,
A burial ground for all I seek.
My ribs collapse, my spirit bends,
A ruin wrought where thought pretends.
‘Can love return, though torn apart?
A fossilised kiss, a vacant heart?
Is it not folly to believe
That in the soil, I may retrieve
What once was whole, now split, now gone—
A love that dies, then lingers on?’
The clover quiets, breath held low,
Its voice as soft as evening’s glow:
‘Love is not always made of light,
It lives beneath the weight of stone.
It thrives in places left alone,
It clings where roots are strong and tight.
After all, the seed survives beneath the frost,
And Spring still rises, though all seems lost.’
The dusk unravels, stillness reigns,
The clover calls—but no longer my name.
‘Hi, I’m Anais, a 20-year-old aspiring writer and poet from South Wales, currently in my second year of studying English Literature with the Open University. I draw inspiration from introspective writers like Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, whose works delve into deep, personal meanings and the complexities of the human experience. I’m especially captivated by nature, and thoroughly enjoy finding profound symbolism in the natural world with its ability to reflect the human emotion that I often explore and express through my writing.’
You can read more of Anais’ work on her Instagram: @anais_brimble_writing.
Small Lies
By Naomi Davies
‘Can you see?’ She asked,
pointing outwards cross a plain. I saw
nothing but the silvery,
shivering glimmer of the sea.
The half-way point between
land and ocean. ‘Yes.’ I replied.
Hoping that would
be the end of it, but her look
told me she knew I hadn’t
seen it. I feared greatly the question.
If I made it up, she’d know,
more than she already does.
‘Yes, a helicopter, right?’
I questioned so it wouldn’t be too
obvious. Her expression told me
otherwise, but I was satisfied
I had avoided interrogation
another time.
I always hated those small glitches in
human consciousness, people seeing
things you can’t, deciphering phrases my
ears barely even heard. ‘Did you pick up
the huldanahuh?’ Just gibberish – I
wonder if this is a new language?
I wonder if this is what people feel when untangling and
taming hieroglyphs into translation?
I think; I will do better next time.
‘Naomi J Davies is a student at the University of South Wales. Born in Merthyr Tydfil, a Welsh patriot excited to study History, an interest in Theology, a passion for reading and any creative way of expression. Her love for writing began at a young age because of the creativity and freedom it provides. Naomi loves to write as it is her biggest passion in life in the hopes that other people with share her love for the art and creativity.’
You can find her via Facebook or Discord @nj_blackbird.
Dawn of the Spring, The Gateway to Summer
By Chloe Summers
Guardian of the East,
Element of Air,
You are all around me,
You are the breeze,
You are the rustling of the leaves.
Guardians of the South,
Element of Fire,You are the sunshine on my cheeks.
The campfire crackles with you,
As does the candle’s flame.
Guardian of the West,
Element of Water,
You are the rain that falls,
The pounding seaside waves,
The river that flows.
Guardians of the North,
Element of Earth,
You are the growing trees,
The beauty of flowers,
The fields of crops.
Wind kissed the tresses,
Sweet scents on the air,
The earth it does thaw,
When her feet land there.
With gentle strokes,
The leaves do unfurl,
Stretching their fingers,
To the sun’s warming glow.
Rainbows shine bright,
Over hilltops and dales,
As she gazes there,
Over the meadow trails.
As Chloe also provided photography, you can find her bio here.
A Thanks to our Staff . . .
Once again, we would like to extend our thanks to the entire team that has made this issue possible. Without your hard work and perseverance, even through the harsh climate of Spring as a university student, we wouldn’t have this second issue.
Olivia Williams - Secretary & Head of Communications
Benjamin Madhavan - Treasurer & Head Editor
Levi Moore - Editor
Mihaly Egeto-Szabo - Editor
Chloe Summers - Editor
Levi Ball - Editor
Harry McMail - Editor & Social Media
Isabella Evans - Editor & Events & Social Media
Charlie Evans- Events & Support
Niall Moore - Events
Lewys Evans - Communications & Website Design
Naomi Evans - Communications & Design
