<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Eliza Remembers Lordshill After Noon<\/strong> Eliza barefoot by the Chapel gate, and out of bounds On the white lane a dog is jogging home.\u00a0 Two acres back Chapel\u2019s shut but what she\u2019s after is the cottage and a cadge. And feels time stand.\u00a0 Thinks, this<\/em> is now.\u00a0 Her hand By her thumb a shadow shapes a nest deep in the leaves. Eliza <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jean Atkin<\/strong>‘s new collection How Time is in Fields is<\/em> forthcoming from IDP in spring 2019. Previous publications include Not Lost Since Last Time<\/em> (Oversteps Books).\u00a0 Recent work appears in The Rialto, Magma, Lighthouse, Agenda and Ambit<\/em>.\u00a0 She works as a poet in education and community. www.jeanatkin.com<\/a><\/p>\n Note: Eliza Remembers Lordshill After Noon<\/em> is part of\u00a0 Understories, a<\/em> project with eclectic folk band Whalebone.\u00a0 Understories<\/em> is a brush with the new folklore of Shropshire, rural and urban myths, tales just out of living memory and tales re-told \u2013 performances start in 2019.<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Eliza Remembers Lordshill After Noon Snailbeach Eliza barefoot by the Chapel gate, and out of bounds and late.\u00a0 Her hand is on the warm iron finial.\u00a0 Ears full of the roar of bees on thistles.\u00a0 Belly empty. On the white lane a dog is jogging home.\u00a0 Two acres back ring voices from the […]<\/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-18181","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18181","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=18181"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18181\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18262,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18181\/revisions\/18262"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18181"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18181"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18181"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nSnailbeach<\/em><\/p>\n
\nand late.\u00a0 Her hand is on the warm iron finial.\u00a0 Ears full
\nof the roar of bees on thistles.\u00a0 Belly empty.<\/p>\n
\nring voices from the farm.\u00a0 Eliza walks the root-heave path
\nbetween the graves.\u00a0 Her toes discover pools of cold yew-shade.<\/p>\n
\nShe walks by bee balm, avens. Clouds of butterflies rise up
\nbut no-one home.\u00a0 She taps again at the panel.<\/p>\n
\nis stopped on warm peeled paint.\u00a0 She tries to recognise
\nher fingers by their dirt, and by the sky-hung sun.<\/p>\n
\npresses in through sudden dark.\u00a0 And all once, the nestlings
\nthrust up their wrinkled necks, and stretch their gapes.<\/p>\n