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Round Robin<\/strong><\/p>\n The north wind doth blow, James played his first piano piece in public Poor Thing,<\/p>\n We finally carpeted all the upstairs He\u2019ll sit in a barn,<\/p>\n Karen graduated in September And keep himself warm,<\/p>\n The Cats have settled in well and the tortoise And hide his head under his wing,<\/p>\n Pam\u2019s mum had a fall (which did prove fatal) Poor thing,<\/p>\n We crossed rivers endlessly on horseback Poor Thing.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Anne Bailey<\/strong>, originally from Yorkshire is a poet living and writing in North Norfolk. She has had her work published in various journals.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Advent<\/strong><\/p>\n These are the days of opening and offering morsels of chocolate or wise, kindly words,<\/p>\n of frost in the hedgerows and robins on a branch while the Bethlem boys beat the tar off each other over the saviour\u2019s shoe size and the length of his beard,<\/p>\n religious men driven to madness or heading there on foot as Christ on a bicycle goes pedaling past.<\/p>\n These are the days of unvarnished truth told to your boss at the office party, of counting the days to your disciplinary hearing, the seasonal spirits claiming yet another lemming.<\/p>\n These are the days of \u201cwhat the fuck was I thinking\u201d of \u201cFOMO made me do it Judge, I should have left at a respectable hour\u201d of glitter, glitz and things that smell of coconut though not in a good way.<\/p>\n Of roaring fires and fuckwit fools doing the twelve pubs in shit shirts, festive hats and a lurking violence waiting to erupt like a stripper from a cake,<\/p>\n of \u201call you need is love\u201d condoms and at least a basic understanding of what constitutes consent. of those who are gone, revisiting for a moment to say \u201chello\u201d or \u201cI fucking told you so\u201d lie down in dirty straw to sleep.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Mick Corrigan’<\/strong>s debut collection, Deep Fried Unicorn<\/em>, was released in to the wild in early 2015 by Rebel Poetry, Ireland. His poem, Snowbound<\/em> was nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2018 by San Pedro Review<\/em>, USA, his poem, If Harry Clarke made a stained-glass window for the Magdalene Women<\/em> was nominated for a Forward Poetry Prize 2018 by Poetry Bus, Ireland. His second collection Life Coaching for Gargoyles<\/em> will be launched, like a clown from a cannon, in early 2019.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We proffer milk to the holler-wool jaws<\/b><\/p>\n we proffer milk to the holler-wool jaws
\nand we shall have snow,
\nand what will the Robin do then?<\/p>\n
\nIn June we lost our much loved cat
\nDavid has done less flying this year<\/p>\n
\nThe social life here is absolutely wonderful
\nA plumber set fire to the back of the house<\/p>\n
\nJamie is teaching English in a Tibetan Monastery in India
\nFlowers seem to have taken over my life<\/p>\n
\nWe still walk beside the sea before breakfast
\nRaleigh was hit by the school bus<\/p>\n
\nPhil is still busy teaching air warfare
\nI learnt a traditional method of Portuguese carpet making<\/p>\n
\nEagles and Kites flying overhead
\nSarah got another degree – her third<\/p>\n
\nThese are the days of memory loss and existential dread, of unexpected kindness from those you didn\u2019t think capable though hostilities resume in January,<\/p>\n
\nof broken sheds with yawing roofs where exhausted women and terrified kids<\/p>\n
\nfrom a glass gin bottle
\nto the gnash on teat
\norphan-drawn in seconds
\nbulk-white in the darkness at the stone of the house<\/p>\n