How can I judge? The shell is not me. I am her conscience I have left her body. Everyone went their separate ways, a solemn walk in the shock and the haze. I tried to go back, her wall was too thick, forcing me out - such anger, such pain. The very next morning, around about nine, she woke with a start, thought things were fine. I float closer to her; she realised the truth. A devastating moment for anyone who knew. Her wall became weak she curled up and cried. When I returned, it was a relief we were now one and able to grieve. ONE OF THE HEARD 51
Irish Street Musician Peter Smith, Artistic Director - Autumn in Malvern Festival Though titled Irish Street Musician it was inspired by a young man playing his violin by the railings outside Worcester Guildhall. I had been to an impressive afternoon concert of the Three Choirs Festival in the cathedral. Afterwards, walking down the High Street, I heard a haunting Irish folk song melody, strangely moving, which has remained in my memory. On passing by later, I heard the young man talking, with an Irish accent, to another admirer. Weekdays on motorway maintenance Saturday by the Town Hall railings You stand alone, eyelids closed, Detached from the cacophonous city Your violin’s mellifluous lament pours Haunting music along the street Mother of Pearl on your rhapsodic bow Flashes with emerald, sunlight on Droplets of Irish rain A memory of hedgerow fuchsias, fragrant earth, Moss cushions, Fern Croziers in the breeze, Like a thousand Bishops’ blessings. Note - The botanical term for the growing tip of a fern is Crozier. A Crozier or Crosier is a Bishop’s Pastoral Staff. 52 ONE OF THE HEARD
Malvernia David Whitworth Malvernia awake. Never flinching. Solid, rampant, unyielding. Dubunni domain. Repeller of Roman blood. Monks’ habits. Water curious. Prior ordained. Fleeting ramblers’ hooves. Startled bookworms. Devouring electric eccentricities. Silicone fishers. Doctors right of way. Precarious tree boffins, Searching with digital scanners. Computer feasts. Watch out for The night shift. Morning breaks. Time clambers on. Fair dues for a Mantle’s heart. ONE OF THE HEARD 53
Othering Anthony Wood Rockets You fiery devils straining for a spark to go free, as a thought of freedom when you’ve got to toe the line, must stretch a tightrope to heaven above the boiling pit of the sea. For we’ve co-opted your rebellion, no longer splattering colour into the sky but exploding in our minds; and if a toehold catches on the rigging and a foothold is secured, winching survivors from shipwreck to shore. Horse A mirror horse ripples across the water; slowly sinks into the gathering gloom glinting at the moon; 54 ONE OF THE HEARD
reflecting the thought: the crescent’s slender limb, taken to Wayland’s Smithy, beaten thin - to the thought of: silver torques stencilled into chalk on the hill’s rim. You lift with the burgeoning light, heaving into sight a diurnal flight, galloping. Ploughmen → Sunken lanes cut into the earth’s strata - ONE OF THE HEARD 55 horses and cattle uncovering the past, going to pasture. Until thieves in their fiefdoms truncate their future, fencing off with hedges of quick, enclosing the commons
in their monkey grip, othering the ploughmen. You know the toil of these men - bent backs and calloused hands manifest in the lie of this land; energy in quantum waves propagates in ridges and furrows, raised crumbling sods to a higher plane - reclaim the past generations. From one foot aside, the world, their lives at that tilt to the horizon as a straight stick bending beneath the water in the slow, exhausting light. 56 ONE OF THE HEARD
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Home Mel Wardle Woodend - Staffordshire Poet Laureate 2019-2022 Returning to bright lights, big city, best memories, Of a time so simple and free. The place that I call home, The place that shaped me... Majestic Cathedral silhouettes the city Where the river runs through - Past Pitchcroft, under the road bridge River rambles north to cow parsley hedgerows lining lanes where I once ran with you To grassy fields and meadows of green On a sunny summer day, Boats putter past and sailors wave As rippling wakes mark their passing way. Winter rains flood fields as the swollen Severn bursts its banks, Oozing up the lane Creating frozen mirrors to jump and crack, Laughing with ice crystallised breath this winter’s day. And at nightfall hear nothing but trees That moan, creak, crack and groan under a full frost moon: My mind returns to my homeland, my heart is always there And I will be back home soon. 58 ONE OF THE HEARD
Haunting Mel Wardle Woodend - Staffordshire Poet Laureate 2019-2022 A haunting echoing chamber of peace Takes the city centre stage. Watching humans battle and race As the Severn exits and bursts her banks Creeping ghost-like up city walls. A cityscape changed From tree lined riverside pavements and concrete roads To deep muddy waters overflowed. Overseeing this scene Hauntingly from above. Ghosts line the air. A lost generation surround their loved ones. Echoing voices sing in Sunday morning prayer. A candle lit In memoriam. The height and breadth of this building lifts from the fog. A strength, a part of the city: reliable, familiar like a parent As October sun fights to shine. Pale reflections line the riverbank In memory of what once was. An ekphrastic poem in response to ‘Worcester Cathedral in Mist’ a painting by Jason Reakes ONE OF THE HEARD 59
The Flood Laura Stephens The river has burst its banks Tears flood my eyes Pigeons coo on the pavement My heart wails from inside Blue clouds frame the spire Darkness needles at my soul I continue treading these streets As this is all I know Tomorrow will be better The flood water will receed The mud and soil will be washed away And I will continue to proceed 60 ONE OF THE HEARD
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Night Life! Zebbie Ann Perry (the self published author of Glass House Glass Mind). Swimming in this countryside daydream in the days I can’t sleep and just want to breathe freely so I drift off into the night to inspire a zest for life weightless I drift into the sky my eyes painted with the stars of the night sparkling in the cool summertime with the shining stars wishing I could get lost in the summer’s night just to say I ventured into the stars and tell everyone what it’s like but could I ever return knowing what I’ve learnt. Taking flight in this solace feeling watching the animals come alive in the night time scurrying from field to field and hiding into the bushes as the cars race down the country lanes all in one big hurry to get home. Bewildered the rabbits huddle together as they’re illuminated in the headlights hurrying home they say goodbye wrapping up tight until the sun calls them out in the morning. The hedgehog high on his adventures unable to see why the rabbits can’t stay out tonight roams the towns tapping his feet to the sound of the people singing until their lungs give out singing along to the tune he wanders through playful feet greeting smiling faces he sits at the bar buying a round for the fox and the hound buzzing in the vibration 62 ONE OF THE HEARD
that radiates from the smiling faces and happily drunk eyes all thinking this is life! Watching each streetlight burn to red as the lights in the houses go to bed the hedgehog and the fox wave goodbye to the laughing hound trying to walk his human home ‘I guess some people never know when enough is enough’. Counting their money in the queue salivating over the smell wishing they could nick a chip from that group of girls who rush from street to street trying to make it to the lock in. Freezing rushing home scoffing their chips trying to catch each sleepy streetlight until they make it home crashing on the edge of the field nestling into the bush they snore into the morning. Singing a soft tune the birds glide across the blue painted sky as the rabbits laugh at the hedgehog and fox still wiped out from last night. → ONE OF THE HEARD 63
The early rises stroll through fields and country lanes quietly getting on with their errands catching up with the mice who couldn’t sleep all night due to the racket ‘How inconvenient can hedgehog and fox be? They were singing - well I say singing - all last night?’ Listening far too long to the mices’ never ending problems they wish they could take flight on the wings of the geese laughing in the skies. Curious about their journey they say a prolonged goodbye walking and talking until the mice are out of sight. Stumbling upon a duck wandering around the town trying to find the best food to take to the picnic this evening. They wander with him smiling and waving at the mice again hoping not to be trapped in another conversation as the dragonflies call them over. Following his trail they reach the edge of the river. Modest and shrewd they dip their toes in wishing they could dive straight in, not content to bathe with the butterflies as they glisten so beautifully in the rays. So they walk along the edge of the tide as the swans glide through tempting them to dive in making up every excuse they could find they eventually walk in running back out squeaking they perch at the side with their paws dipped in cooling them down in the rays. Serene in the cool summer breeze until the hedgehog and fox dive in from the bridge clearing the water laughing at the geering mice. Ignoring their snide and angry remarks they laugh and shout at the hound walking his human. 64 ONE OF THE HEARD
The animals gasp at the sight rushing away trying to find shelter the hedgehog screams “Come back she’s an acceptable human sorry about that hound.” And just like that their summer adventures ruined. ONE OF THE HEARD 65
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The Maze Paul Jeffery We are astonishing creatures of cellular complexity infused with thought, thus.... Where to shelter when the cruel wind blows? Where to hide, who to trust? Where to turn to when the time is dark? We shall turn to love as we must. We are astonishing creatures of familial history twirled around by a vortex of DNA, thus.... Whose the ownership of this world? Whose the right to control? Whose the key to unlock our hearts? Who’s the guardian of our souls? We travel and travail through the years. We meander and marvel through the maze. We are astonishing creatures of mood and momentum, of habit and hypnosis, thus.... When shall we turn away from greed? When there is enough for everyone’s need. When shall ploughshares replace the sword? When shall truth be the spoken word? When shall truth be the final word? ONE OF THE HEARD 67
Who’d Have Thought… Mogs Who’d have thought that I’d miss ‘normal’, Whatever that might have been, The sheer misery of Rush Hour, The whole 9 to 5 routine. The mad panic of the school run, To get them up, and dressed, and out, Being so busy I’d got no time To lounge about and just do now’t. Who’d have thought I’d miss the barbers Always cocking up my hair, Being crushed in smelly, crowded pubs Or tortured in a dentist’s chair. Being dragged around the shops all day While she tried on frocks and shoes, And those times back when ‘Brexit’ was The only topic on the news. Who’d have thought I’d miss her mother, I’ve not seen her for so long, I miss her interfering and Pointing out where I’ve gone wrong. Who’d have thought the highlight of my day Would be to go out for a stroll, To queue at Tesco, and strip the shelves Of pasta and toilet roll. Who’d have thought that I’d miss so much, Lockdown’s really put me through it, You don’t realise quite what you’ve got Until you’re told you can’t do it. I never thought, in my wildest dreams Life would ever come to this, That so many things I used to hate One day, I would come to miss. 68 ONE OF THE HEARD
The Garden Mogs I’m not allowed to do the gardening, It’s for the best, we’ve both agreed, ‘Cus I don’t know what to pluck or prune, I can’t tell flowers from a weed. All the green things just confuse me, Which is heather, which are nettles? When I did mowed the lawn, I would find The grassbox half full of petals. It seems I don’t have green fingers, I’m a menace with trowel or spade, If you see me wielding a chainsaw Or anything sharp, be afraid! I’m still always out in the garden, I let her dig, prune and cut grass, I’ve found it’s best if I just watch her While swigging from a cold glass. ONE OF THE HEARD 69
“I’m Thirteen” Ali McIndoe You are not just underage, you are barely teenage, thirteen. Just thirteen and seen as an object. Catcalled. Wolf whistled. Heckled in the street. And you are left feeling dirty and more than a little worried. What the fuck?! What the actual fuck is that about?! Thirteen and objectified by lecherous eyes, peeling you back in size and worth and value. And I want to punch faces, unleash my anger in places that would really hurt them. But I cannot be with you all the time. So what do I say? What advice do I give you? You are still finding your voice; do you really have no choice but to retort: “I’m thirteen” or “Please leave or I’ll scream” or “What are you looking at, you dirty old man?” I don’t think I would have had the gumption at your age. And does confrontation not just invite escalation? The last thing I’d want is more aggravation for you, or for you to feel more exposed, for it to erode you even more. Because of this you can be sure – you are worth a million of them. 70 ONE OF THE HEARD
These men, these shitty specimens of men, are not worthy of your breath, not worthy of you. And I will remind you of this at every chance. Do not believe their degrading stance. I know it will feel demoralising, terrifying at times, but do not believe a word. But I hope that the word is heard by another, that they will be your voice, that they will call it out for what it is, head on. So wrong. Because every thirteen year old girl who is catcalled, Wolfwhistled, Heckled in the street, is someone’s daughter. And we all have a responsibility, women and men, to stop it in its tracks. To say enough is enough, call it out, report it. Every. Single. Time. So that thirteen year old girls no longer have to return home feeling dirty, and more than a little worried. ONE OF THE HEARD 71
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On Forest Bathing in The Old Hills Ali McIndoe I leaned against an oak tree and invited Nature in, I settled on the wise old bark, and listened to birds sing. I rolled my shoulders up and down; down towards the ground. Exhaling long and slow, I added to the woodland sound. I solo wandered slowly, through fern and swaying grass, I paused to notice small things, I looked with more than a glance. Sunlight dappled through the many rustling leaves, It was like a secret party, hosted by the trees. I sit and I do nothing. I sit and I just be. And when I gently leave... I’m a lighter version of me. ONE OF THE HEARD 73
One Day I Shall Be Perfect Granville Paul Orange One day I shall be perfect. No longer will I pick my nails, Slurp my soup Eat too fast Stuff my face... Or spill food down my front... Or pick my nose when nobody’s looking! No longer will my bathroom be dirty The toilet need cleaning And the sink harbouring dark hair, toothpaste stains, Or mouthwash debris. No longer will I snore, Or pinch the duvet off you - Leaving you cold at night... Nor will I drink too much, Nor drink too fast... Or weigh too much. Nor have to wear clothes that are baggy To hide my waistline - Which offends you. I shall no longer be moody prior to a full moon Or bad tempered, and... Will no longer be critical Especially of your driving skills (or lack of ), And no longer will I spend, spend, spend. No longer will I have too many cars Too many hobbies... Too many fads Or enthusiasms Or too many sheds Or girlfriends Or any friends... I shan’t go to the pub 74 ONE OF THE HEARD
I shan’t go on boys’ trips away, Or attend any more rugby matches... Or other sporting events. I shall never offend you again – After all is done and said I shall, after all, be perfectly dead! ONE OF THE HEARD 75
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When All Is Said and Done Granville Paul Orange When all is said and done The fighting over, the war won One battle remains Between two opposing forces - Right versus wrong Weak versus strong And heart over mind. So, who’s the victor? You or I? Do or die... Be gentle with me, be kind. Listen to the crowd shout Why, why, why? What was all that about? Close the book You’ve read the last chapter. Take a look I’m a prisoner of war And you’ve made the last capture. Cut through the razor wire And set me on fire Rip out my heavy heart And place it, still beating, On the red hot grill Hope you enjoyed the thrill - Of hurting me, wounding me But I’m crawling up that hill... To the top - the other side. Do you see what I see? Temptation, desire, and a better life... Lay down your gun, end the torture I am gone, And all is said and done. ONE OF THE HEARD 77
Disney Care Neil Laurenson Gavin has done nothing with his degree. There is nothing to see in his life. These thoughts go round and round in his mind like the carousel he is currently operating. This was not what he was anticipating when he studied engineering. A switch is flicked. The ride stops. Everyone is as dumb as the horses they are sitting on. Gavin orders everyone off. No, there will not be any refunds. Yes, this is a funfair dismissal. 78 ONE OF THE HEARD
Paws Then Send Neil Laurenson That sharp moment of horror when you attach the wrong file to an important email – poor Wendy felt winded as she realised that the photo to go with the press release announcing the new managing director was actually of her cat, Pepsi, though fair play to the company, which leapt to Wendy’s defence and for a whole week kept up the pretence that the managing director was quite inexperienced and entirely covered in fur. ONE OF THE HEARD 79
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Rain James Thorp It’s raining in the city today and I’m sat on the bottom step of the staircase in the multi-storey car park. The water pools on the top floor and runs down the stairs, at first just a trickle but by the time it reaches me it’s a waterfall coursing over my shoulders, flooding the district, waist high water continuing to rise,[1] I’m used to it by now, of course, sodden and cold, but I also notice that the sun’s still shining, warm on my face, reflecting on the surface of the water, making it sparkle around me. I breathe a sigh, and think: I love the rain in the summer. You’ve got to know how to float[2] that’s life, right there, that’s life.[3] Recovery [1] And to think, there was a time when water only half as deep as this was enough to drown me. [2] That’s the thing, right? People spend so much time ignoring what they do have that they start noticing what they don’t. I should know, I’m guilty of that more than most. [3] See, if you know how to float, it doesn’t matter how deep the water gets. ONE OF THE HEARD 81
Adultery Maggie Doyle - Worcestershire Poet Laureate Emeritus He thinks I haven’t seen the tell-tale signs The subtleties that he’s no longer mine The hurried glass of favourite wine He doesn’t know I’ve seen the tell-tale signs No talk of work or how he spent the day No interest in what I have to say I watch him disappear, he fades away No talk of work or how he spent his day The casual kiss dropped soft against my cheek Excuses for an absent night this week The unknown scent of which he reeks As he drops a casual kiss against my cheek His mobile, always left around Is no longer seen, nor eager to be found In fact, it’s silent, doesn’t make a sound His mobile, now never left around His eyes are bright but I’m no longer there I’m lost but have no idea where He hasn’t noticed, doesn’t care His eyes are bright now she’s reflected there 82 ONE OF THE HEARD
Frozen Fashionista Maggie Doyle - Worcestershire Poet Laureate Emeritus A Siberian wind tears down a street freezing the flesh on those whom it meets; this is the place and the time of the year local inhabitants have all grown to fear. For parked on the seafront, in an orderly row, are hearses and skeletons who all seem to know the darkness is carrying a secret of old a story of terror constantly told. Clip-clopping on cobbles, an invisible horse bearing his rider, headless, of course. Black cats in the shadows hiss at the wind smelling the bones of those who have sinned. From high on the hill an abbey stares down awaiting the Master who wears the dark crown. Washed onto the shores from strange lands afar, all hail his kingdom, hail Count Dracula. Time has embellished, new generations embraced this legend of vampires but, now in this place, fashion makes way, re-interprets the scene black is the colour and it must be seen on the ladies and gents who now promenade Dracula pales, is just a façade. for the trench coats and basques, outfits in leather minis and fishnets, whatever the weather, spill onto the streets for praise and acclaim freezing in Whitby, it’s Goth Week again! ONE OF THE HEARD 83
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I Always Come Back Here Charley Barnes - Worcestershire Poet Laureate 2019-2020 I always come back here, this vein in the landscape that links one part of the city to another; connective tissue and tendrils to remind me how things are stitched together, despite falling apart in many ways, too. These old buildings, stacked on fallen men and women who cared for them; industrialism and renewal that has paved the way for fayres and linked fingers, visits to the river, evenings spent with friends. The city in her whole is home. When I’m lost or thinking of leaving, I migrate to her core, spend time watching currents, counting swans – losing track, starting afresh. I always come back here. ONE OF THE HEARD 85
Ceci’s Shop Maria De Stefano On the corner of Park Street and Wylds Lane a corner shop in every way except when you walked in you became an extra in an episode of Mr Benn ‘Goes Italian’ where a thick cut loaf of Mother’s Pride stands side by side with a Christmas Panettone or a tub of Flora and a pint of milk rub shoulders with a punnet of Ricotta. You got the lot in Ceci’s shop on the corner of Park Street and Wylds Lane a lino floored square of Italy a Tardis for the local Italian workers when they stepped inside it took them back instantly to their hill top village in the old country their sanctuary of linguistic immunity where they could speak freely in their own mother tongue “Cumba’ [1] qua si parl’ Italian’” without the funny looks or fear of being misunderstood like a stupid foreigner. In Ceci’s you see it and smell it in the flesh before counter displays and vacuum pack technology sanitized the real ripe effect, the sweaty sock odour of Parmigiano and Salami the ring leaders of the aromas that a-roamed free with a hint of ground coffee and the sizzling pan of peppers Teresa was cooking for tea out the back that lead the mouth to salivation, the iron will to temptation and brought out the glutton in the thrifty Italian who’d only come in for a loaf of bread but left with a quarter of freshly sliced Mortadella. 86 ONE OF THE HEARD
Ceci’s shop it was wall-to-wall pasta La Molisana, Penne, Stelle, Linguini numero sette take your pick but not literally ‘cos in Ceci’s it’s “NO SELF SERVICE PLEASE” wait your turn and let your senses be tempted by the waxy yellow globes of Provolone cheese and disembodied Parma Ham legs suspended like planets over your head where snippets of gossip orbit in whispers and hushed tones and eyebrows raised at whose daughter’s getting married and the all important question which heightens the tension “Cumma’ [2] is he English or Italian?” Ceci’s shop on the corner of Park Street and Wylds Lane of Ceci’s shop nothing remains the lino floored square of Italy is now someone’s fitted carpet parlour blinds rolled down like cartoon eyelids Ceci’s shop sadly missed like its customers, their immigrant journeys over their stories married to our history their hardworking bones now resting in peace in our cemetery, nourishing the roots of our city. Notes [1] Cumba’ – an Italian dialect term of familiarity for a male friend of the family [2] Cumma’ – an Italian dialect term of familiarity for a female friend of the family ONE OF THE HEARD 87
September Maria De Stefano Keep away from the shed, ‘cos today, we heard it through the grapevine and Papanon [1] has got his old factory overalls on and is waiting at the gate puffing on a cigarette ‘cos today, the grapes are coming, all the way from Italy, a bulk consignment on a lorry chartered by Ceci’s’. A special delivery from the old country that reminds every immigrant Italian, that not everything they left behind was poverty and misery. A special lorry loaded with tradition, transported down the centuries to their terraced house doorsteps in the new country so, Keep away from the shed, ‘cos the grapes are coming carried down the alley by Cumba’[2] Nunzio and Cumba Gennaro , stacked up like columns of Lego but, Keep away from the shed, ‘cos where there are grapes the wasps will follow, a force-field of them drawn to the shed like their opium den, junky wasps waiting for their fix, and it’s a battle of wits between them and Papanon’, and they try all the tricks and frisk his ears and torment his nose, but Papanon is tough, he’s fought off hunger and hardship and Fascists, and he brushes them off as he empties box after box of grapes tumble like bubbles of caviar into the crusher, chewed up and pressed, flesh, twigs and pips. And Papanon the organ grinder turns the handle of the press to a visceral, squelching trickling melody and the junky wasps go into a frenzy, and some are so high they kamakaze into the drink and 88 ONE OF THE HEARD
die, happy, but, Keep away from the shed, cos’ we’re scared stiff of the junky wasps crawling up the wooden tub, gorging on overspill but still we can’t resist rubber necking the spectacle, and Mammanon [3] muscles in and gives her two pennies worth and points with her walking stick like a professor, and Papanon gnashes his dentures “I said... keep away from the shed!” And in a few months time, when we’re sitting round the table for Sunday dinner, he performs his ritual and opens up a bottle of murky maroon nectar he calls wine but to me it smells like vinegar, one sniff is enough to curdle my nostrils but for him it’s a chemical! biblical! miracle ! poured from a recycled orange squash bottle into a tumbler he holds high, sticking out his little finger and a twinkle in his eye “Alla salute!” [4]... and down the hatch it goes with pride and pleasure. And the magic alchemy swirls round his taste buds and turns home made wine into sweet grape honey and a memory, of happy times in the old country. Notes [1] Papanon- an old Italian dialect word for Grandad [2] Cumbar’- literally means godfather, but also a term for a close family friend as in “uncle” [3] Mammon – an old italian dialect word for Granny [4] Alla Salute! – cheers! ONE OF THE HEARD 89
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A Word Square To Live By Oliver Bliss My difference will make me stronger Difference is both desired and hated Will you let them break you? Make yourself bolder, own your truth. Me, I tell myself this story Stronger are the ones who know Stronger are the ones who know Me, I tell myself this story Make yourself bolder, own your truth. Will you let them break you? Difference is both desired and hated My difference will make me stronger ONE OF THE HEARD 91
What Will We Remember? Jay Rose Ana Where did half the year go? Flash forward, the blink of an eye. What have I achieved though? What will anyone remember, what will I? There was that lockdown. Not sure what to make of that. We can head out into town. Pack a raincoat and a straw hat. Weather is the new disruption. Rain, hail, sun, and heat. Earthquakes, floods, and eruptions, Dulls fighting in the streets. Where did half the year go? Now we stray outside our home. What knowledge can we bestow? When our young ones are fully grown. 92 ONE OF THE HEARD
The Pendulum Swings Jay Rose Ana when life is down we can only frown the stars seem dim and hope looks grim when we have seen enough of the peaks and troughs of our life’s complex wave twisting, shaping how we behave when we don’t feel missed think of our lips being kissed and the warmth it brings and the pendulum swings free of friction, gaining momentum steadily flowing as it conquers resistance its trajectory set brings equilibrium yet a coin has two sides mornings long for evening tides hope and time heals many things life goes on as the pendulum swings ONE OF THE HEARD 93
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Like what you read? Why not get involved? We run free writing workshops throughout Worcestershire and over online platforms. Each year we run writing courses for people on a journey to better mental health, as well as anyone who identifies as LGBTQ+. Feel free to email to express your interest and we’ll let you know when our next courses start. Part of a community group, charity or organisation who might benefit from a writing session or course? Please do get in touch and see how we can work with you. Our facilitators have experience of working with young people, vulnerable adults, at risk children, those battling addiction, offenders and abuse survivors. Email [email protected] to express your interest. www.the-word-association.com ONE OF THE HEARD 97
Support Us Thank you for picking up this book and reading it. We hope you loved it! We have plans to deliver many more writing programmes and produce many more anthologies. To keep it free for our participants and audiences, we rely on funding. If you love our work and are able to contribute a small donation, we can use it towards match funding our next project! Thank you so much. https://ko-fi.com/thewordassociation 98 ONE OF THE HEARD
This project has been generously funded by The National Lottery Community Fund, as part of our larger anthology project. Featuring the work of: Jacob Slater, Amanda Bonnick, Susan Davidson, Rhianna Levi, Leena Batchelor, Anne Hodnette, Timothy Stavert, Sam West, Michelle Barnes, Peter Smith, David Whitworth, Anthony Wood, Mel Wardle Woodend, Laura Stephens, Zebbie Ann Perry, Paul Jeffery, Mogs (John Morris), Ali McIndoe, Granville Paul Orange, Neil Laurenson, James Thorp, Maggie Doyle, Charley Barnes, Maria De Stefano, Oliver Bliss and Jay Rose Ana. This project was coordinated by The Word Association CIC with support from Worcestershire Libraries and Bromsgrove District & Redditch Borough Councils. The Word Association www.the-word-association.com Cover image: Katy Evans
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