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Limbs and leaves<\/strong><\/p>\n Escaping the dry heat of the house Lying beneath bare trees, We stroll past the old piggery full of pruned back roses, The greenhouse shelters a forest of geraniums <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Marie-Louise Eyres<\/strong> is a London poet living just outside Washington Dc. In 2018 she has been shortlisted by the Bridport Prize, the Myslexia Women’s poetry competition and Moonstone Arts Center Chapbook competition.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Drift<\/strong><\/p>\n Snow on the ground, patches of green forewarn a slow melt \u2013 no white Christmas. The lake already frozen, leaves like shark fins pushing through ice. Between the branches enough mistletoe to decorate the doors. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Belinda Rimmer<\/strong> has worked as a psychiatric nurse, lecturer and creative arts practitioner. She recently came second in the 2018 Ambit Poetry Competition. Her first poetry pamphlet will be published next year by Indigo Dreams.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Gift<\/strong><\/p>\n It was snowing, and my pregnant wife Nell was making pancakes in the kitchen when Loni arrived to drop off Rosie. It was Sunday, the day we switched. I asked her to come in. Christmas was in a few days, and a house filled with carols had had its effect on me; I was feeling kindhearted.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks,\u201d she said, taking one big step over the threshold. She bent to untie the laces of her snow boots. I began to regret the invitation immediately. Loni and I had shared a brief encounter behind a row of sky-blue porto-potties at a neighborhood event I had been hired to photograph four years earlier, and our relationship had declined quickly from there. We had never gotten along, but we loved our daughter and affected friendliness when she was around.<\/p>\n \u201cUm, let me take your coat,\u201d I said, and as she stood and unzipped, I noticed the sheer fabric of her blouse.<\/p>\n \u201cIs Nell here?\u201d she asked. She had put on perfume<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, of course, she\u2019s making pancakes in the kitchen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nwe step into the mild, Boxing Day damp.
\nOur noses fill with the sweet stench
\nof silage and fallen fruits at the end of the garden.<\/p>\n
\na brightly coloured apple blanket
\nunraked after the Autumn storm,
\nrots by design, into the soil.<\/p>\n
\nthe cow sheds crammed with firewood,
\ntoo heavy to lug into the house this year,
\ntoo dusty for our eyes.<\/p>\n
\nbowing to greet us, limbs and leaves gathering mildew.
\nUnder these windows angled to the sky,
\nrumours the scent of decay.<\/p>\n
\nEager for another ride before snow turns to slush, my son has stopped mid-sledge
\nto pose for a picture. I hunker down beside him. My arm rests across his knee,
\neasy, natural. I’m wearing pink wool \u2013 hat, scarf, mittens \u2013 and heavy boots.
\nOur eyes squint into a low sun. We smile in different directions.
\nBeyond the picture \u2013 cups of cocoa, slippery chips, stars in a darkening sky
\nand an icy path home.<\/p>\n
\nDifferent this year, the house now empty \u2013 my boys out in the world.
\nStacking clouds promise a storm, maybe early snow.
\nA robin settles, tiny under winter feathers.
\nI was trying so hard not to think of Christmas.<\/p>\n
\nI reach, no longer ballerina-elegant. I still believe in kissing under mistletoe.
\nWhat would it be like to kiss a stranger? What taste? What wayward tongues?<\/p>\n