<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Caw<\/strong><\/p>\n a flit of feather on bone lodged under my sternum I tried to turn you out outside the school gates in my dreams I reset a caw escapes my throat <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Kathryn Alderman<\/strong> co-chairs Gloucestershire Writers\u2019 Network. Publication online and in print includes: Amaryllis, Atrium, Bonnie\u2019s Crew, Eye Flash Poetry Journal, I Am Not a Silent Poet, The Canon\u2019s Mouth<\/em> and she won Canon Poets\u2019 \u2018Sonnet or Not\u2019 Competition (2012).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Cornflakes<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019m eating breakfast alone <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Rachel Burns<\/strong> poetry has been widely published in literary magazines and shortlisted in competitions recently HeadStuff and Primers Volume Four.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Gone Old Snow<\/strong><\/p>\n For the first time in recorded history,\u00a0Braeriach\u2019s\u00a0Garbh Choire Mor is snow-free in<\/em> I imagine you not knowing, I see you loosening like the tight hide the hill might know how you feel when you arrive; I imagine the hill answering your lip-bitten frown of losing perennial snow that had shrouded I imagine you imagining that cherished old snow, sorrow, almost wholly unseen \u2013 you, feeling the hill lowering you down.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jo Young<\/strong> is from York and is a PhD student on the University of Glasgow\u2019s Creative Writing programme. Her poetry has won prizes\u00a0and been published in anthologies and magazines including\u00a0Rialto<\/em>\u00a0and\u00a0The Scores<\/em>. She is currently poet-in-residence at the National Army Museum, London.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Caw a flit of feather on bone you came uninvited lodged under my sternum shook ice from down and thrummed it through my veins I tried to turn you out but your cold eye never slept when I hid in dark you crowed all night outside the school gates other mothers set smiles […]<\/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":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17495","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17495","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=17495"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17495\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17498,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17495\/revisions\/17498"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17495"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17495"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17495"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nyou came uninvited<\/p>\n
\nshook ice from down
\nand thrummed it through my veins<\/p>\n
\nbut your cold eye never slept
\nwhen I hid in dark
\nyou crowed all night<\/p>\n
\nother mothers set smiles
\nand glances sideways
\nas though the tenant pecking
\nat my chest
\nwas an affectation
\nan actor in search
\nof an audience<\/p>\n
\na snapped sapling
\nhold it upright until
\nit buttresses the wall<\/p>\n
\nwhen it reaches the top branches
\nit sounds like singing<\/p>\n
\nsitting outside the caravan awning
\nearly mid-September morning
\nlooking out across a vast green field.
\nI stare at the views of Manchester
\nwhich is to be your home for the next three years,
\nthe smoke billowing chimneys and skyscrapers.
\nI watch the airplanes fly overhead
\nas your father ferries
\nyou and your things to Halls
\nthe car fully loaded,
\nyour life\u2019s belongings crammed
\ninto crates and boxes
\nhalf of which I don\u2019t think you need
\nbut you were stubborn, insistent.
\nI take my arthritis pills and finish
\nmy bowl of cornflakes
\ndrink my coffee
\nto the sound of birds singing
\nand a crow startling in the hedgerow.<\/p>\n
\n two consecutive years.<\/em>
\nIain Cameron September 2018<\/p>\n
\nyour wilful grit and sharp-slated finger jams,
\nyour seasoned tactics picking paths
\nin negotiation with the hill\u2019s solitude.<\/p>\n
\nof a hare being skinned as the hill relents
\nand channels your scramble
\ninto that hostile sump. I imagine<\/p>\n
\nfor a breath-held moment giving you space
\nfor your crouching and the laying of hands
\non the everythinglost at Sphinx and Pinnacle.<\/p>\n
\nwith a non-reply of ancient stillness,
\nand the plain geology of a glacier\u2019s grave.
\nI imagine you sounding the entire consequence<\/p>\n
\na claim of bedrock beyond light and air
\nthrough all these soaked spring-times, chiding
\nthe loosening winter-grip. Defiant till now.<\/p>\n
\nthose patches of weathered archaeology
\nas they slid hourly between temporal
\nand lasting. I imagine a new lonely<\/p>\n
\na fresh chill in this wild, warming cradle,
\nyour legs lifted before you<\/p>\n