<\/p>\n
Sister:<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n A passing through,<\/p>\n a revisiting,<\/p>\n a pack carrier,<\/p>\n a ship\u2019s hold that exactly fits your past,<\/p>\n a hide,<\/p>\n a shelter,<\/p>\n the mouth empty of cadence,<\/p>\n how vowels fall soft like meadow grass<\/p>\n and speech smells of green, green, green.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Julia Webb<\/strong> has an MA in poetry from the University of East Anglia. She lives in Norwich where she works as a creative writing tutor and freelance writer. She is on the editorial team for the Gatehouse Press journal Lighthouse.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Outgrown<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n It is both sad and a relief to fold so carefully<\/p>\n her outgrown clothes and line up the little worn shoes<\/p>\n of childhood, so prudent, scuffed and particular.<\/p>\n It is both happy and horrible to send them galloping<\/p>\n back tappity-tap along the misty chill path into the past.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It is both a freedom and a prison, to be outgrown<\/p>\n by her as she towers over me as thin as a sequin<\/p>\n in her doc martens and her pretty skirt,<\/p>\n because just as I work out how to be a mother<\/p>\n she stops being a child.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Penelope Shuttle<\/strong> : from Unsent: New and Selected Poems\u00a0 1980 \u2013 2012<\/a><\/em>, Bloodaxe Books, October 2012<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n And <\/p>\n Sex is like Criccieth. \u00a0You thought it would be And yet, a giant sun nobody has told Alison Brackenbury<\/strong>\u2019s eighth collection Then, <\/em>Carcanet 2013, can be ordered here<\/a>.\u00a0 Sample poems, and blogs about them (with intriguing photos), can be seen at www.alisonbrackenbury.co.uk <\/a><\/p>\n (And<\/em> was first published in The London Magazine<\/em>)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Sister: A passing through, a revisiting, a pack carrier, a ship\u2019s hold that exactly fits your past, a hide, a shelter, the mouth empty of cadence, how vowels fall soft like meadow grass and speech smells of green, green, green. Julia Webb has an MA in poetry from the University of East […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","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-4133","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4133","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=4133"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4133\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4135,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4133\/revisions\/4135"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4133"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4133"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4133"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n
\na tumble of houses into a pure sea
\nand so it must have been, in eighteen-ten.
\nThe ranks of boarding houses marched up then.
\nThey linger, plastic curtains at their doors,
\nor, still more oddly, blonde ungainly statues.
\nThe traffic swills along the single street
\nand floods the ears, until our feet
\nturn down towards the only shop for chips,
\nto shuffling queues, until sun slips
\nbehind the Castle, which must be, by luck,
\none of the few a Welsh prince ever took.
\nOr in the caf\u00e9, smoked with fat, you wait.
\nWill dolphins strike the sea\u2019s skin? \u00a0They do not.<\/p>\n
\nof long decline, beats the rough sea to gold.
\nThe Castle rears up with its tattered flag,
\nhand laces hand, away from valleys\u2019 slag.
\nAnd through the night, the long sea\u2019s dolphined breath
\nwhispers into your warm ear, \u2018Criccieth\u2019.
\n\u00a0<\/p>\n