<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Snows<\/strong><\/p>\n They arrived overnight, gossip heavy breath. Silver-tongued cast off Mr Snow as another fool turn the sky into a swan’s feather Beautiful, wraithlike, the wife wafted She never spoke to a soul. It was clear they’d seen The Snows drifting naked of translucent skin. Two hearts fluttering All winter they worked on the dream house, everything bare. The body of the old boiler webbed the windows. On the coldest nights, silhouettes grabbing handfuls of each other melting together. Women sat and cried, of warm kitchens infused with whiskey through bedroom windows, and later, they all dreamt of rolling downhill they unwrapped their bodies from sheets slipped through the fingers of first light. frozen and scattered on the lane, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Joanne Key<\/strong> lives in Cheshire.\u00a0Her poems have appeared in various places online and in print. She won 2nd prize in the 2014 National Poetry Competition.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Spectral Penguin<\/strong><\/p>\n He is almost invisible, silvered in plain sight; The Snows They arrived overnight, gossip fogging the lane in muffled footsteps, heavy breath. Silver-tongued and ice cool, the knitting club cast off Mr Snow as another fool who could break the heart of a mirror, turn the sky into a swan’s feather and have the neck to whistle it down. Beautiful, wraithlike, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[65],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12909","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2016"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12909","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12909"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12909\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12961,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12909\/revisions\/12961"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12909"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12909"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12909"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nfogging the lane in muffled footsteps,<\/p>\n
\nand ice cool, the knitting club<\/p>\n
\nwho could break the heart of a mirror,<\/p>\n
\nand have the neck to whistle it down.<\/p>\n
\naround town, rising and falling like water.<\/p>\n
\nwhat flowed through both of them. Some said<\/p>\n
\nthrough their gardens. There were rumours<\/p>\n
\nlike lovebirds, half starved, snowed in.<\/p>\n
\ntore its doors off, ripped up floors, stripped<\/p>\n
\nlaid out on the front lawn while sterile fibres<\/p>\n
\nneighbours watched for signs, reported<\/p>\n
\nbefore falling to the floor, tall shadows<\/p>\n
\nrocked themselves silent in the corners<\/p>\n
\nand cinnamon. Men stared at the moon<\/p>\n
\ntucked deep inside the fleece of Christmas Eve,<\/p>\n
\nwith The Snows. Tumbling with them,<\/p>\n
\nof white silk, only to find them gone,<\/p>\n
\nBy morning, all that was left were teardrops<\/p>\n
\nflickers of wings looking for skin.<\/p>\n
\nfeathers glisten in ultimate camouflage white
\n\u2013 we forget his eyes as they track
\nour trudges through bleakest
\nausterity. He rather fancies a tasty fish.
\nWe muse on turkey, stuffing , who will spear
\nthat coveted last roast parsnip. Tell children
\nFather Christmas will know each sneak pinch
\nof their little brother\u2019s arm, each choccie filched
\nfrom Nana\u2019s Milk Tray \u2013 but they\u2019re savvy,
\nthe kids, they know a bribe.
\nThe spectral penguin waddles against adversity
\n\u2013 no matter to him the failed John Lewis audition,
\nand that Attenborough chap cutting his finest work \u2013
\nhe bobs strong from webbed foot to webbed foot
\noutside fake-snowed windows, ready to plunder
\nunguarded fish fingers. He watches \u2013 his time is nigh.
\nHolly Magill<\/strong> is from Worcestershire. Her poetry has appeared in various publications, including Poets\u2019 Republic, Clear Poetry <\/em>and The Morning Star.<\/em> She has no shelves for any elves.\u00a0 Twitter: @HollyannePoet<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"