Thursday, 18 December 2014

as it is winter III.

III.

You made a theatre of silver birch. It grew quickly
and you were worried the branches might start touching,
growing together in a way that was not pleasing to your exact design.
No matter how I suggested to prune a little here and there
you insisted on digging up the trees, replanting.
We had to dig in the middle of a winter's night.
There were lanterns but not enough light so you drove
your car as close to the trees as possible and we worked
with the headlamps on our backs. It was easier for me
to work with bare frozen hands. The earth a terrible ice-clod.
I tugged at roots without wishing to frighten the poor damned
spirits of the trees. The plan was to dig and then move each tree
a little apart from the other. You barked at me to move this one,
angle the trunk of the other. Snow came and the young trees glistened,
white upon white.

                       And the trees were at that moment finding their roots lost in snow,
tilting, uneven. In the dim tired light of before-dawn
a few looked upturned, blasphemous. I wiped my hands on your hot neck.
You pressed your hands against my cheeks. The trees quivered.
This is it, you said, walk with me  - and we walked through around
and around the trees, punching our boots into the earth to steady the woken.

Tuesday, 16 December 2014

as it is winter II.

II.

Your winter garden
has the perfect dark circles

for us to walk around
prizing the empty

our hands of breath
and scarlet berries

and all that is beneath us
sunk into the rattle of old ice

no fancy stages
in the long cold wait of dreams

we weigh old hearts
as we bury thin roots -

frost in selvedges,
riddled in a narrative

of dark and white
and painted in sleep.

Saturday, 13 December 2014

as it is winter I.



I.

there shall be

old/new discoveries -

cover your eyes pretend you don't know

find old lists in the far reaches
& green things
beneath dark

side-edge of a flower
before petrification

unwinding paper
and scissor scars -

all praise
the bird of seed eyes
who shall guide
the weather toward us