<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
December<\/strong><\/p>\n Time of water light. Air and earth light autumn skeletons fill the sky and fade. children dredge dreams for real smiles between heavy sleep or worn-thin insomnia. fill the void of old religion. Don’t be-grudge these little drenched grey by the weeping sky, it is all we hold on to <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Hannah Linden<\/strong> is a Devon-based poet. She has emerged this year and is published by Domestic Cherry, Apple Tree’s Speak!<\/em> anthology and several online poetry magazines. She tweets @hannahl1n<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Christmas Gift<\/strong><\/p>\n They walked beside the river, Her white throat, silly heels There were no angels singing <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Marc Woodward<\/strong> is a musician and poet based in the West Country. His work, which often draws on music and rural life and is frequently underpinned by dark humour has been published in various magazines and anthologies.\u00a0 This is his blog http:\/\/marcwoodwardpoetry.blogspot.co.uk<\/p>\n <\/p>\n our decorations were glass and bought down the tree<\/p>\n so with needles and with hooks a lovely tree <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Gareth Writer-Davies<\/strong> was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Erbacce Prize in 2014, Highly Commended, Geoff Stevens Memorial Prize in 2012 and 2013. He is having his pamphlet Bodies<\/em> published by Indigo Dreams in 2015.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" December Time of water light. Air and earth light spread so thin and dirty, washes of fishscales autumn skeletons fill the sky and fade. This the sad time. Parents worry their pockets children dredge dreams for real smiles gifted this one day of happiness wedged between heavy sleep or worn-thin insomnia. Fill 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":[37],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7942","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2014"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7942","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=7942"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7942\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23960,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7942\/revisions\/23960"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7942"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7942"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7942"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nspread so thin and dirty, washes of fishscales<\/p>\n
\nThis the sad time. Parents worry their pockets<\/p>\n
\ngifted this one day of happiness wedged<\/p>\n
\nFill the house with anything that shines itself back to us<\/p>\n
\nblessings: fairy lights, tinsel, glitter. For some of us<\/p>\n
\nas we dog-paddle the deep waters to Spring.<\/p>\n
\nswollen with heavy sleet.
\nHe felt the matted grass
\ncrunch beneath his feet.
\nIn his pocket he knew
\na secret, terrible and raw.
\nShe said that she was freezin’
\nand what’d they come ‘ere for?<\/p>\n
\npuffer jacket, trinkets gold.
\nShe said that she was going back;
\nhis fingers tightened on the cold
\nblade, eager in his coat.
\nThey’d come a little way now
\nhe could maybe do it here:
\nhe’d already worked out how.<\/p>\n
\na church bell didn’t ring,
\nhe felt no warm compassion,
\n(he never felt a thing).
\nBut he eased up on the handle,
\nsaid “Yeah, you’re right, let’s go”
\nand as they walked towards the road
\nthe sky began to snow.<\/p>\n
\nYarn<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nbut a wagging tail
\nshattered them<\/p>\n
\nyou wove a Noble Fir<\/p>\n
\ncrocheted soft unbreaking baubles<\/p>\n
\nthat may be bent
\nbut never broken<\/p>\n