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<\/p>\n
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Boar\u2019s Head<\/strong><\/p>\n We were passing through Borley And I remembered Jantac <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Carole Bromley<\/strong> lives in York and has three books with Smith\/Doorstop, the most recent, Blast Off!<\/em>, a collection for children.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Present<\/strong><\/p>\n Grey children are moving across no-man\u2019s land His tanned face is smiling: Have you ever During that Christmas, the Queen\u2019s Westminsters, after they\u2019d exchanged gifts of Tickler\u2019s jam they scouted the snipers\u2019 positions so next day What\u2019s that? he asks. A brown paper package Can I have it? I shrug. As I check my diary <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Stuart Pickford<\/strong> is the recipient of an Eric Gregory award. His first collection, The Basics<\/em>, was published by Redbeck Press (2002) and shortlisted for the Forward Best First Collection prize. His second collection, Swimming with Jellyfish<\/em> (2016), was published by smith\/doorstop. Stuart lives in Harrogate and teaches in a local comprehensive school.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Confusions of Father Christmas<\/strong><\/p>\n The spring morning smugness in his ears His mouth is dry and though the copper kettle Tears of dirt negotiate his beard, for the small cruel lice he feels The green velvet jacket does not fit A creature lows at his door Without any care, how might he gather sufferings in every room He sets a most reluctant course, closes his front door, <\/p>\n Pauline Rowe<\/strong> works as Writer-in-Residence at Open Eye Gallery, Liverpool and as Poet-in-Residence at Mersey Care NHS Foundation Trust. \u00a0She is a Creative Writing PhD student at Liverpool University and has 2 full collections.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Boar\u2019s Head We were passing through Borley and I was thinking, as I changed gear to go up the hill, woods either side, of the wild boars that lived there and gave it its name and whether there are still boars there and, if so, how big they might be and whether […]<\/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":[82],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15351","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2017"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15351","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=15351"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15351\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15500,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15351\/revisions\/15500"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15351"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15351"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15351"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nand I was thinking, as I changed gear
\nto go up the hill, woods either side,
\nof the wild boars that lived there
\nand gave it its name and whether
\nthere are still boars there and, if so,
\nhow big they might be and whether
\nthey have tusks and if they are shy
\nlike bears and, if they can, steer clear
\nof man and, when they sense one,
\ngallop off, cloven-hooved,
\ninto the depths of the forest.<\/p>\n
\nthat first Christmas
\nand my long pink dress
\nfrom Richard Shops and how
\nI never noticed the cold
\nas we followed the boar\u2019s head
\nacross the quad, singing that carol
\nand how sorry I felt for it,
\nits mouth stopped with an apple.<\/p>\n
\non the astro. I turn back to Alistair catching up
\nwith \u2018Lord of the Flies\u2019 coursework through lunch.<\/p>\n
\nbeen to Antigua or island hopping? I look out
\nat the rehearsal of the truce on the Western Front:<\/p>\n
\nwearing top hats and with umbrellas up, cycled across
\nthe frozen sludge to the German trenches, but<\/p>\n
\nfor schnapps\u2014or, in our case, bags of Haribo
\nand Sainsbury\u2019s commemorative chocolate bars\u2014<\/p>\n
\nthey\u2019d be ready for when the Hun raised his head.
\nAlistair\u2019s staring at a present stuffed in the bin.<\/p>\n
\ntied up in string is, in this case, just a prop,
\nI explain. There\u2019s nothing in the battered box.<\/p>\n
\nfor our next catch-up session, Alistair holds it out
\nin both hands. Sir, your Christmas present.<\/p>\n
\nfull of humming pigeons on the roof.<\/p>\n
\nis still warm to touch, it holds no water.<\/p>\n
\nhe searches with his fingertips<\/p>\n
\ndancing on his face.<\/p>\n
\nover his frayed and friable shirt.<\/p>\n
\nbut does not know the designation – guide.<\/p>\n
\nthese many sacks of sanctifications,<\/p>\n
\nall over the house, if this is his house?<\/p>\n
\nleaves an arc of unpaid bills around the mat.<\/p>\n