HermitageI left my name at the wood's edge
and entered its tree-green shade a stranger to myself. I found a clearing, a quiet space and in this peaceful glade bound together branches with vines. I sit beneath this weave of hazel and breath. Behind my eyes I find my heart - a bruised apple. I hold it gently in my mind. Occasionally a black dog rises up and barks a memory at me. I play fetch with the ruined fruit. Always the beast gives chase and always brings back not the over-ripe taste of rot but a cracked, white eggshell. I place this empty casing in the cradle of my ribs. And here, almost imperceptibly, it pulses and throbs pulses and throbs. Flightwe walk
and we talk about this and that loneliness people and the future lost in our worries we spot two magpies we are trying not to be superstitious from our hilltop vantage point we notice shafts of golden sunlight radiating towards the sea suddenly we are drawn to a fluttering in the hedgerow we look down and see a thrush struggling we stop and ponder what to do a bird with a broken wing is a sad thing it is scared so are we we do nothing and move on Comments? |
ScarecrowMy mouth was a painted grimace
on a straw-filled potato sack. I could not speak lips or tongue. My words came from scraps and wasteland – rats’ feet over broken glass Dust blew into my cracked eyes. I could not cry. Sometimes I sagged on this pole, like A stilled flag. I was a wind-beggar. I could hold up my bag-head if I chose but usually I stared down at my scuffed shoes – One brown, one black, no laces, pegged in place by bulldog clips, they hang from my trousers – like suicides. Empty glove hands flap no fingers. What wouldn’t I have given for a bone or a blackened tooth? Now my intestines itch madly, were I human a tapeworm would be less irritating. It’s all kept inside with strong twine and A belt buckle. These days - I wish I’d tear open. Let the crows peck me slack, become a dishrag. Six weeks ago, after I was given my reason, they nailed me up here, two sticks crossed and tied, broken broom handles. That’s the biggest joke of all. Before, when I was an earwig’s nest, these thoughts did not exist. Now I know what I am – I’m a sham. A pest controller, a bird scarer, A dead man’s Sunday best. And I’m useless at it – This is my last day on field duty. They’ve been building it for a week – Paper, twigs, unwanted furniture logs. Everything chopped and stacked piled up like a witch’s hat. It’s all been dried out and dowsed in petrol. Sacrifice is too strong a word for it, I’m a device. Up there’s a chair with three legs. The coronation throne where later I’ll receive my cardboard crown. From tortured fool to murdered king in a flash. Oh how my new brains will burn. |
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