The Telephone Box of Lost Words – by Gareth Culshaw


The box we used to go to
has been taken away by a van.
Those glass walls so the world
could see in but not the words

you spoke. We went when
you needed to talk to Joan
or Rob, Gran or someone I
couldn’t reach to hear.

Your words tumbled down
the line. In rain I stood with you,
breathing in the stale cigarette ash.
In sun I pondered outside.

Every Friday you carried yourself
there, it became more important
as you aged. I didn’t know the words
back then, but saw the syllables in your eyes.




Gareth lives in Wales. He has his first collection by futurecycle in 2018.

The Pub Farmer – by Gareth Culshaw


They said he drowned
puppies in the outside drain.
He was at odds with
the world and angrily frowned

leaving a shade under his
eyes. He was a door you couldn’t
open or dare to knock on.

Stone faced in all weathers
his life was the local
leaning on the bar
like a farmer checking his cattle.

We were just a herd to him
as he looked at us
to find the weak, the lame
so he could sort them out later on.



Gareth lives in North Wales, he loves the outdoors and hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen.