The Ash is common enough –
with keys the wind misplaces
and in winter, velvet leaf buds
that recall those long
black gloves I wore,
to trace your trembling
outline – neck to hip
and down a little more.
Its fissured bark is
a history of cuts, as if
the past can be sloughed
like a worn out coat.
As green leaves fell
I glimpsed a woman
in the golden copse,
or maybe a hare.
:
:
:
:
:
:
First published by Algebra Of Owls 2018
When Persephone stopped playing outside
sometimes you’d catch a spectral
glimpse of her through the window,
waving at her mother gardening.
One summer, her mother found
a dead red admiral on the path.
It was a mere slip of a thing;
and it must have just expired
fluttering from flower to flower
unfettered in the lonely garden.
The mother put it in a matchbox
which she guarded with her life.
Every year she thought of
new ways to dispose of it;
to set it free through flames
or simply in the act of letting go.
Of course it was magical thinking,
to imagine a ritual
that could heal the heart.
Never was a butterfly so heavy.
Don’t you ever feel like
walking to the day’s end,
then curling up inside
a ditch or doorway;
till dawn kicks you
in the ribs and
moves you on again?
The sky looks up
with a beatific gaze,
but there’s no miracle.
An evanescent road
pools in the heat –
too far to call
even for swifts,
that populate dusk
with their screeches.
I will return to those
strange arches where
perpetual rain falls;
choose a happier door.
Dear friend, if you
have ever loved me
tell me now –
be here, somehow.
