Sorry, my friend, that I have not written sooner, but I have been travelling, far, over scored glacial plains where the bitten thornwood crouches beneath the north star; then farther, to where the seas roll like cold tar. I sailed that congealing, snow-crusted sea till it set hard and ice snapped my boat's spar. So cold it was, not a tear could flow free, and none trudged that frozen desert but me. When night condensed from the twilight gloom I stumbled, numbly, unable to see, my ice-thistled coat as hard as a tomb. But morning has brought a fall of rain thawing my hands, so I write again. by Mark Allinson

art by Pat Jones