POSTSCRIPT
You’re wasting time. Your lilac needs pruning. By the shed,
split birch rots, the compost is amuck in rainwater.
Remember your lemon summers, a table set by a stone wall, peaches
in a basket with white napkins. Tart apples and Stilton on plates.
You’ve forgotten how to laugh. Tongue in ear. Toes on thigh.
Where did you put your body, once taut with expectation?
Who could know what would happen. Ice storms out of season.
Winter moth in the trees. Spores rising in blades of grass.
Others picked apple blossoms and put them in a blue vase,
while you filled hand-made journals with complaint.
The stones are tired of hearing your story. Bitter, bitter the crows
pronounce mid-flight. You should hike down to the pond,
late afternoon, now that your legs will carry you. Go ahead: take
your clothes off : your broken body is not special.
Feel the silt slide across hair rising like milkweed.
Feet sinking in mossy sludge, you’ll kick-off from the bottom
as it dissolves beneath you.
