<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Flying with Larus minutus<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n An unwanted journey, I peer out for a sign. We are ready for this: High above the motorway, buffeted but resolute, The sunroof clicks and hums. Through dark-dawn winterlight, I rise, My thin fingers reach into wind-riffled wings, The controls are simple: There is no going back. There is no going back. <\/p>\n Jane Lovell<\/strong> is the Poetry Society Stanza Rep for Warwickshire. She has had work published in a number of anthologies and journals including\u00a0Agenda,\u00a0Poetry Wales,\u00a0Envoi, the North, Dark Mountain,\u00a0Zoomorphic, Mslexia\u00a0<\/em>and\u00a0New Welsh Review.<\/em> She won the Flambard Prize in 2015 and, this year,\u00a0was shortlisted for the Basil Bunting Prize and named as runner up for the 2016 Wisehouse and Silver Wyvern awards.<\/p>\n is a year in the making is long in the kneading is cosseted in its proving is aromatic in its baking <\/p>\n
\nreturn to a dark town in the hill country,
\na room where you were born.
\nAnd she\u2019s still there,
\nsame wallpaper, same carpets, that
\nheaving, scratching dog.<\/p>\n
\nLights fly out from the gloom.
\nThe only indication that day has begun,
\na half-dreamt\u00a0 glimpse of gusting cloud.<\/p>\n
\nan 8lb turkey on the parcel shelf,
\ngroceries and sherry in the boot.
\nGifts.<\/p>\n
\nLarus minutus surfs the plunging sky
\nunaware of urgency, the glare of tail-lights,
\nits focus the last spiralling beetles.<\/p>\n
\nThere comes a time.
\nI whisper my goodbyes but you are occupied,
\ntwiddling the radio…the traffic news…the weather.<\/p>\n
\nre-emerge at thirty feet,
\noccupy this oblivious, feathered vessel,
\nthe barrel-chested cockpit.<\/p>\n
\nbrace against the turbulence beneath.<\/p>\n
\nrise, swoop, swerve, descend.
\nA tuner offers squawk and scold through
\nto extended screech.
\nOn a red screen, summer\u2019s last remaining insects
\nbobble and fizz.<\/p>\n
\nWe are heading east towards the Thames in search
\nof twisting elver, ragworm, fry of bass and shiner.
\nWe shall venture further, to the haunt of kittiwakes,
\ndisorientating mists.<\/p>\n
\nThe wind is westerly, and strong.
\nWatch me fly the wind, shape of an angel.<\/p>\n
\nThe Christmas Loaf<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nis stuffed with good things
\nraisins and ginger
\ncinnamon and nutmeg
\nalmonds and clove.<\/p>\n
\npummelled and rolled
\nfolded and pummelled again
\nuntil yeast is blended
\nand can begin its work.<\/p>\n
\nkept by the radiator
\ntucked into its bowl
\nwith a snowy tea towel,
\ngiven time to grow.<\/p>\n
\nturning golden in the oven.
\nIs brought to the table,
\nbroken between us
\nshared and is gone.<\/p>\n