Way down inside the rifled depths, (maybe there was a bottle
of milk, the sea at the end of the garden, coming in waves, washing
over me, trees so large their conkers filled my hands. Pine cones
grandiose as bare fists) it outflanks, coming at me when I am least
expecting. Like when I looked to prune her pretty dress of heartened
leaves. They have sprained, are brown-blackened, curdled. One
side of her, inside, branches eaten away by canker, trapped
in the ducts. No longer will they bud in the fullness of a summer.
Can you help to save her, as I hide from the limelight? Can you
look within this fetidness? I slice her thick bark into the cut of new
moons, sharp as a lemon, bitter. I disconnect her shoots, dislocate
those damned spines within. Try to twist shards to rip nettles
to cull deadheads, trail depleted grasses into piles, drag over soil
long roots; they gather undressed in the kindled sun. Arms together
we're nauseated. Leaves lie purged on empty grass. I sit back, sip
my cooled coffee, smell the sweet the beaded gems.
Irene Watson is a contemporary artist, educator and poet who lives in a shabby pink farmhouse. In amongst the bustle, she finds a space to write and exhibit. Recently her poems have been published online in Words for the Wild, Cateran Eco Museum, Pendemic, Friday Flash Fiction and is up and coming in Poetry Space's 'Locked Down' anthology, Dreich and Whales of Arcadia. She is currently collating her first poetry pamphlet.