Reflections of thin birch shiver in a dark pool. These woods are pitted with small circular coal scrapings from another age. A deers velvet antlers glow in the half light as a buzzard skews its presence. The wind picks up, veering to the east. Means cold. I startle a hare, it hurdles dead thistles, grass, away. First spots of rain.

Here, in the first of two episodes, I take a slightly different approach and talk to Brian Lewis about his essay/memoir ‘Last Collection’ alongside my own book of poetry Little Piece of Harm. On Frida...