by Tom Harding

Published in Issue No. 226 ~ March, 2016

I found the last radio

Out amongst the forgotten things;

It’s insides empty

But the smooth mahogany body intact.

I carried it home

And kept it beside my bed,

Each night pressing my ear

To it’s cool cavity to hear

The sound of pine trees

Blowing back and forth

And the pulling of black waves

Carrying me to sleep.

Some nights it would howl

Like storm winds through a damp cave,

Other nights I’d wake

To the clatter of it across the floor

And swear I’d see some shape,

Light as a fox,

Slip from its shell

Into the shadows of the room.

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Tom Harding lives in Northampton, UK, where, when not working, he writes poetry and draws. He has been published in various places including Drunk Monkeys, Shot Glass Journal, Lighthouse Journal, Sentinel Literary Quarterly and Nthposition. He also maintains a website of his own work at