<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Christmas Cards<\/strong><\/p>\n I posted them. Piles of envelopes into They\u2019d sat beside the phone when I toured the house. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Roberta James<\/strong> lives in London and works in television. She has had poems published in magazines and online. Twitter @Robertawriter<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Snowblind<\/strong> Hoar frost on the trees. Spool back to the letter on the fire, All the Christmases roll together, all the voices <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Carol A. Caffrey<\/strong> is an Irish writer and actor living in Shropshire.\u00a0 Her work has been published in a number of journals and anthologies and her debut poetry chapbook will be published by 4Word Press in 2020.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Christmas Day, 1848. St Michael\u2019s Church, Haworth<\/strong><\/p>\n She sits in the family pew, head down. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Maeve Henry<\/strong> lives and works in Oxford.\u00a0 Her poetry has been published in various magazines and anthologies.\u00a0 She was shortlisted for the inaugural Brotherton Prize in 2019, and the Wasafiri New Writing Prize in 2018.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Christmas Cards I posted them. Piles of envelopes into a letter box alive with curls, mouth wide. I pushed them in, then skipped a beat, startled by the thud, that ricochet of drum and heart, before they settled, each envelope in wait, their flaps fixed by spittle of my dead mother. They\u2019d […]<\/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":[114],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-20855","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-twelve-days-of-christmas-201920"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20855","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=20855"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20855\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20921,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20855\/revisions\/20921"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20855"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20855"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20855"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\na letter box alive with curls, mouth wide.
\nI pushed them in, then skipped a beat, startled
\nby the thud, that ricochet of drum and heart,
\nbefore they settled, each envelope in wait,
\ntheir flaps fixed by spittle of my dead mother.<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019d hesitated, wondered what they were,
\nthen halfway down was mine, my name inscribed
\nwith rounded Ds and Bs, the fullness of her As.
\nMy envelope was plumper than the rest.
\n5 days later it arrived as if she lived.
\nI scored the top with care, removed the card,
\nthe single folded note, delicate as skin.<\/p>\n
\nI said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept<\/em><\/p>\n
\nBreath clouding the window pane.
\nListen.<\/em>
\nSqueak your fingers across the glass to
\nscrutinise the sky, an astronomer in ankle socks
\ndeciphering the stars.<\/p>\n
\nsucked up the chimney in a flash \u2013
\nA-doll-a-pram-and-a-tea-set,<\/em>
\n a pair of skates, a skipping rope \u2013<\/em>
\nthe dash outside to catch the ashes on the wind,
\nsmoke signals drifting over rooftops.
\nRoll forward through the years
\nand other words gone up in smoke –
\nWe went to your mother\u2019s last year;<\/em>
\n not in front of the children.<\/em>
\n It\u2019s bad news, I\u2019m afraid;<\/em>
\n the first Christmas is the hardest.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nthat have gone, blown skyward on the wind,
\nalways snow at Christmas.
\nMemories gather
\nas a snowball gathers snow.
\nI hear them
\nas the child hears sleigh bells in that
\nclose and holy whiteness.
\nI wear them
\nlike a coat, turn my face towards the sky,
\naccept the falling flakes of snow.<\/p>\n
\nHer father\u2019s words fly from the black rock
\nof his pulpit like fieldfares, chasing up the nave
\nhigh above bonnets and caps, quarrelsome, lively,
\nignored. She will not listen. Not today. A space
\nof cold air in the church where warm bodies
\nonce pressed her close. Hidden in her glove
\nthe withered spray of heather searched for
\non the moors, too late. Those fierce eyes
\nwere grown indifferent, unrecognising; the fight
\nwas lost. No need now to tremble for the hard
\nfrost and the keen wind. Her sister does not feel
\nthem. She will write, later of God\u2019s comfort \u2013
\ntoday the new birth in the bleak hill village
\nis unaccompanied by any light.<\/p>\n