<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
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Rooks<\/strong><\/p>\n Amber takes her turn and waits.\u00a0 The rooks are a clockwork heavy with the things we never said. Sometimes air gets held light breaking up with the dark.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Zelda Chappel<\/strong> writes because she has to and often on the backs of things. \u00a0She has been published in a handful of publications including Popshot, Elbow Room<\/em> and South Bank Poetry<\/em> and was nominated for the Forward Prize this year. \u00a0She tweets, often a little too much, as @ZeldaChappel<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Rooks Amber takes her turn and waits.\u00a0 The rooks are a clockwork mechanism made for gathering bones and this landing strip is littered. You’d spat them out with mustard vigour, mouth running dry as hay having no use for them now, you’d left them to grow old alone heavy with the things […]<\/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-6259","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6259","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=6259"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6259\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6262,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6259\/revisions\/6262"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6259"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6259"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6259"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nmechanism made for gathering bones and this landing strip is littered.
\nYou’d spat them out with mustard vigour, mouth running dry as hay
\nhaving no use for them now, you’d left them to grow old alone<\/p>\n
\ntight as twigs in a blackbird’s grip but it cannot make a nest, you said.
\nI didn’t buy it until the machines came in to split the sums, make wounds
\ndivide up land in a virus of furrows and crossed lines, watching<\/p>\n