
Whose power? Whose planet?
In intervals between the winter gales, I go out with one of the plastic bags we used to get for our recycling.
The urge to explore and celebrate all the kinds of lives of Planet Earth is stronger than ever, but the environmental and ecological crisis demands we also lift our eyes, and our voices, to species extinction and habitat loss, to what is happening to the forests and hills, the rivers and seas, our streets and gardens. The writer’s instinct to pay attention has never been more vital. Literature can help us to see the natural world – and our place in it – differently.
In intervals between the winter gales, I go out with one of the plastic bags we used to get for our recycling.
It started with a tree. Or if I look back further, maybe it was the magic tadpoles on the classroom windowsill, suspended in honey-coloured water
The bay at Skagaströnd is around two miles from end to end and tilted slightly south. This is a busy deep-water harbour
From satellite or pilot height you’ll see
a continent of smoke, a mountain range
of Himalayan scale over Siberia,
concealing its own shadow
During the Covid pandemic, one of the places I liked to take a local walk was a small patch of ancient woodland called Den Wood:
My life as a heather-stalk
granted me the opportunity to hear
the sounds of people as they walked
across moorland
Massive, broken-masted, mysterious,
their whitened trident blades fallen,
fractured, wrapped in the roots of trees,
they are unearthed and displayed:
I’m standing in the breakfast room of my hotel in Memphis. After 21 hours of travelling, I’m in need of something to eat and drink
We watched the wind thread needles through the hills,
its whispers bending the blades to its will,
turning air into light, a soft revolution—
As relatively quieter valleys of the eastern Lake District, Riggindale and Haweswater were, until 2015, the territory of the last golden eagles in England.
We walk under a wolf moon. No torches light our way and the night is dark. No, not dark.
After school I find Mum frying meaty quarter-pounders, like I’ve never told her it’s ozone-irresponsible to fill the world with methane-making cows.
Hid’s blowin a hoolee, bit I geed oot a luk efter dinner wae the camera. A job tae stand apace long enough tae tak photos.
What are we searching for, really, when we search for cowries? Out on the skerries, the four of us are bent double.
Sun baked; desiccated husks hung on the fence amid a dwindling vulpine aroma. Their eyes had long gone, and the spark vanished, leaving empty sockets.
Out of sync with the tides. Out of sync with the season. Out of sync with the sudden drop down to the beach.
A fresh-cut blade of summer grass
blows into the book. The seed head
trembles as it slices the print.
The sea gooseberry is not a fruit. But when I first see one, I don’t know what it is at all.
Jamie’s latest collection, Cairn, refuses to be about any one thing. Hillsides, are graced with tormentil and turbines. A tanker carries oil through Glen Esk.
When I was tree I believed
we’d stand forever, sighing
consorts of wind and rain
– till the Felling came,
The Splendid Poison Frog,
Spix’s Macaw,
the Bramble Cay Melomy,
the Moorean Tree Snail,