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Snow Queen<\/strong><\/p>\n The snow’s been drifting in her heart for years; She\u2019s seen some winters, this Her son recalls his father’s funeral, She leaves the armchair, zips her coat. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Cherry Doyle<\/strong> lives near Cannock Chase. She works and runs a writing group in Wolverhampton. Her work has appeared in Presence, The Cadaverine, Southlight, and more. She has\u00a0a degree in Creative Writing from the Open University. Find her on social media @ms_n_thrope.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n What kind of humbuggery is this?<\/strong><\/p>\n Via the black hole from heaven down the celestial ladder by the good man\/ Trawls through the galaxy birds in glass orbs, sleigh bells Meteors of lametta through her no-mess- Last but never least braces for the conception at the pinions after impaled nevertheless of old man pine stiff with imminence <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Julie Maclean<\/strong> is the author of four poetry collections. Joint winner of the Geoff Stevens Poetry Prize with Terry Quinn her poems appear in BODY Lit<\/em>,\u00a0The Rialto<\/em>, Poetry Salzburg Review<\/em>, Shearsman<\/em>, Poetry\u00a0(Chicago)<\/em> and\u00a0The Best Australian Poetry<\/em>, among others. Born in Bristol she is resident in Australia.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Grinch<\/strong><\/p>\n Their happy murmurs I\u2019ve been up here all day Is that a laugh? A snarl of my sixteen year old fingers.<\/p>\n I could sneak down in my dressing gown <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Edward Heathman<\/strong> was born in 1995 and grew up in South Wales. He is currently studying an MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature at the University of Manchester.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Snow Queen The snow’s been drifting in her heart for years; her hair’s the colour of flakes blooming on the dark road through the valley. She is the child of shepherds, and miners with slate-crag shoulders. She\u2019s seen some winters, this queen in scuffed boots, dragged […]<\/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":[97],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18052","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-twelve-days-of-christmas-2018"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18052","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=18052"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18052\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18145,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18052\/revisions\/18145"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18052"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18052"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18052"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nher hair’s the colour of flakes blooming
\non the dark road through the valley.
\nShe is the child of shepherds, and miners
\nwith slate-crag shoulders.<\/p>\n
\nqueen in scuffed boots,
\ndragged toddlers through drifts – white
\npiled on white piled on white – frozen milk
\nand pale fingers in her grasp.<\/p>\n
\nthe letter she never saw, the icy smart
\nof her wedding ring as he takes her hand in the chapel;
\nweeping into his daughter’s hair
\nas they lay flowers.<\/p>\n
\nIce spreads across the pavement like glue.
\nSnow blows up into the corners of the window;
\nfeather-peaks that will fall away
\nand leave mountains in her blood.<\/p>\n
\nshe inches nervously<\/p>\n
\n\/aluminium, installed<\/p>\n
\none cloud box at a time<\/p>\n
\nfor the showiest bling\u2014<\/p>\n
\nsnatched in the sales<\/p>\n
\nstreak their glitzy wake<\/p>\n
\nno-drop-needle forest<\/p>\n
\nthe Angel of Hope<\/p>\n
\nWings shaken loose<\/p>\n
\nrough handling<\/p>\n
\non the bristling spine<\/p>\n
\nCardboard crinoline<\/p>\n
\nin a perpetual lean<\/p>\n
\ncrackle through the ceiling.
\nIt\u2019s so lovely it\u2019s unbearable.<\/p>\n
\nwith the window aghast
\nto keep the warmth from downstairs.<\/p>\n
\nhunches in spidery fashion
\nand I feel the moody curl<\/p>\n
\nand ruin everything,
\nif I wanted to.<\/p>\n