<\/p>\n
Deluge at the Angel of the North<\/strong><\/p>\n Rain petals the car windscreen, carnations appear The air is stifling; everything is here and soft breath love <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Tom Kelly<\/strong> is a north-east\u00a0poet and playwright with eight collections, his most recent, Spelk<\/em>, published by Red Squirrel Press.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Yule Tree<\/strong><\/p>\n The storm that stayed a day ago It\u2019s taken until now for lifting limbs Each fork and knot and swollen joint It\u2019s taken weeks of pagan sun It took last Tuesday\u2019s sudden snap It took a closing afternoon <\/p>\n <\/p>\n David Charles Gill<\/strong> studied with distinction on the creative writing MA at UEA where he held the 2016 Bryan Heiser Memorial Bursary. He has been published by Haverthorn Magazine and Holland Park Press. His first play Nineteen Short Scenes for Sons<\/em> is being produced in Norwich next February.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Vision of St Eustace in a Wood near Witney<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019m in Cogges Wood, on the land of a vanished abbey, in a mist-hollow down where the stream floods, like Pisanello\u2019s hunter Placidus, when, the stag turns at bay, in splendour, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sarah Watkinson<\/strong>\u2019s prize debut pamphlet Dung Beetles Navigate by Starlight<\/em> appeared in 2017. Her work appears in magazines including Antiphon, The Rialto, Litmus, Under the Radar <\/em>and Well-Versed<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Deluge at the Angel of the North Rain petals the car windscreen, carnations appear near-translucent as if holding the world\u2019s tears, takes them with dignity, asking for more as they fall on concrete and are lost like the past I meant to call. The air is stifling; everything is here and soft breath love […]<\/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-15373","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\/15373","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=15373"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15373\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15521,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15373\/revisions\/15521"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15373"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15373"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15373"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nnear-translucent as if holding the world\u2019s tears,
\ntakes them with dignity, asking for more as they fall
\non concrete and are lost like the past I meant to call.<\/p>\n
\nis whispered to someone, somewhere, their hearts rise above
\nthe sky and refuse what the day will bring as rain broods
\nthen clatters on my car roof in this sudden deluge.<\/p>\n
\nhas found the shaping done last year.<\/p>\n
\nand walls of blasting ocean air
\nto set the apple thinnings free.<\/p>\n
\nthe frictions found in cracking bark
\nancient bleeds which would not part
\nrefused to help the hanging dead.<\/p>\n
\nwinter-weakened\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 hour-starved<\/span>
\nto crisp the tined and ripened moss
\nand breeze each roll of thatch away.<\/p>\n
\nto show the blackbirds where I spiked
\nstored fruit on paring stumps
\nalong the nearest of the trunks.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe third before Epiphany<\/span>
\nto find the silence in its shape
\nthe forest in a festival
\nthe stand above a patient scent
\nthe circles in its frozen height
\nthe verses in its ornament
\nthe setting of each winter light.<\/p>\n
\nin rain and the A40\u2019s Christmas shopping drone,
\nthe last hour of daylight. I loose my Labradors
\nto nose the dying bracken for a scent. Then<\/p>\n
\nhigh in the hedge, a tree-crowned head
\ntakes shape from winter-darkened quickthorn
\nand locks me in its gaze. I feel judged<\/p>\n
\nlymers at a loss, horse spooked, alone
\nwith no one to gawp at his extravagant pink tack,
\ndraped golden cape, or the yards of azure silk
\nelaborately twisted on his head,<\/p>\n
\nand puts him in his place.<\/p>\n