Talking Crow

Jim Clarkson is a lucky git.
He has written poetry since he was 17 and mostly he has done this in pockets
of time in-between doing other stuff.
His is a poetry which has sprouted like a weed growing between cracks in the
pavement; a poetry which has spread like mushrooms in a cellar. Often he
has referred to it as bandit poetry, because that’s how it’s been written - in
stolen moments at 5 in the morning, or in car parks, or at the top of the stairs
waiting for children to go to sleep.
In M...