01 June 2010


The garden has been
rent asunder, my green-
fingered real-life scene
is dead, pedalled away
in the thunder, nothing
seen or said. Still,
it lends a stately air
of decrepitude to my mood
which no pill could have cured
before the storm.
The worm has turned.
I no longer wish
for perfect lawns and a pond
heaving with fish that gasp
for air. I'm leaving all that
behind, ribbons in the
wind on the day after the
fair has been spirited from town.
Now I crave weeds and
the days have gone when I
numbered pots and seeds and
dressed them in muslin and
gauze. I creep about. I pause.
I watch the spider move from
crack to rock and back and
let the rust on the gate lock
spread. Those outside do not
know if the wilderness is
hemmed in or if the
spider's criss-crossed thread
keeps them out.
The worm does not care.
Like I said, it turned,
and dug my house from
inside out and in the
rout I saw my face as a
white orb in the glass.
I like the grey space
of light on the bed-springs, the
cracked spout of the tea-pot
clogged with muck and brine.
You worry. I say it's fine.
Photo courtesy of Kirsty Palmer