she is not sorry
she steps in to the part of a sun petal, gaunt webby dress and sticking heels, not sorry, yellows and pinks, that gently lulling clash of waves of colour and scent of remembrance, the scent of cloves upon her hands. some of the weighter stalks make a fort of dreams, she is not sorry for picking her way out, plucking the mapgpie feathers, or taking a sunflower as if it could be plucked not a flower but fowl, that fat hen, always nodding, you know she just would not give up, she is not sorry. love is tattered and messy and beautiful in the sun, and more so in rain, yet wretchedly lovely, not sorry, love is never saying i am sorry, for being, for being the ungardener disturbing all nature's ugly beauty spots, a flowery laugh as she skips, pollen stains on her skirt, that flapping moment of sun that scratches her face and stretches the afternoon, make it wait by the garden gate, now the garden, not the left fist but the right hand path, each petal a moment of illusion, crushed.
tea garden *2
rose petals at eleven, the around o'clock dancing in her head, like opium only intoxicating ghosts not really there, breathless fallen scratched music, she rests her hand across the barbs of recollecting open books medicine like clouds or dust falling giddy in skirts and head-dresses, it has come to this, wrists frayed, edges of happier gardens recording the family gone, all the way they went, around and around, as if they could uninvited and unexpectedly return to the old lawn with the drunkard paths to find lupins taller and brighter, lips wide, ready, time for tea.
silver-sun daydreamers, spread across the lawn, legs apart, lega akimbo, put that young man down girl, free to feel, book open, spine creaks and words crawling across the page toward the chipped tea cup, little dribbles of herb tea across the page, little flies of words, adding to together sentences make themselves mothy, furred, clinking inside the jars of dried stuffs, the biggest has a lot to say for herself dancing in the evening light, around and around and around, making a scene, taking the butter knife and slicing a piece of lawn to give to guests, uttering the ghost cloud song of happier gardens.
tea garden *1
her little rosy face
her head-dress of last hour's sunshine
a sudden jumped magical
straight line of thought
following the fallen petals all the way
around and around the garden
around and around and around
& around
& around we go
all the way, holding her wrist not her hand
breathless & giddy with breathing lungs ache
scratched wrists rose thorns of bleeding harmless
when she blinked again & again
knocking down to earth
we all fall down
suddenly as the clouds came and thunder
the garden swam, the villagers of lupins standing
gawping at the colours of her
leaning and grasping & tearing at the lawn
frayed edges of earth, little lacy weeds
time for tea, time for sleep, it is time
rest your weary head poor dead ones
daisies recording the hours
recollecting a happier moment
before she was dragged down to earth
and before she was born slithering red
rose petals all stuck over her mouth
breathless lips
intoxicated with rose and hawthorn dust
and little stab marks of heels across the lawn
dancing dancing dancing
again & again
foxgloves
the rain-heavy earth smells of foxes and the foxgloves are high, they reach up toward the light, elegant, taut purple sheaths, rising, grasping at air, making their way into open, nettles all around getting to them, taking over, enveloping green stingers like so many harrid unwelcomes, crying out, this urgent voyage of flower, making a display of it, outreaching the tree breath, coppery rain, the metallic taste of hours of showers, the mud so thick and rising, roots heeled in, the violet healing flowers emerge again, seeping green, weeping woods, showers upon showers, listless seeds, rampant growth, the shady makers.
nettles voyage, an urgent shower of display, the garden will sting, it will weep, listless, around itself in the seeping cry of purple foxes, getting nowhere the smell lights metallic roots, taking so thick flowers to the breath of high grasping, weeping trees, this voyage makes the earth into shady rain.
healing herbs
five healing herbs: rose, hawthorn, passionflower, balm and motherwort. she says the motherwort will literally give me a hug as i sip. all these herbs will gently oh so gently allow my heart to stop clunching up so that i can sleep and breath into the future. take a pinch of each, a teaspoonful, brew considerably, sip steadily, allow - allow - allow - the healing time, hurt cannot be healed but the heart can forgive itself. rose is the most powerful, motherwort the most giving, hawthorn will do whatever is asked of it, passionflower will not give passion but will relax and allow a peacemaking, balm will cleanse and lift the heart.
gently passionflower asks to give, to sip the gentle peace. rose is mother, can sleep all day but forgives not love. a clutch of howthorn, hurts. stop hurting yourself, so rose, so balm. powerful allowances, literally pinch the heart. a teaspoonful of sorrows. the future is a giving time. forgive passion, rose, flower, heal. hurt itself is heart, to stop is to sleep, to give is to say. to love is to allow. five breaths of whatever cannot be. sip all or nothing. give everything. most giving is the gently hurt, itself a brew of future nots and steady pain.
testing - can you find me - the scent of lilies, a small room, a single bed, a silent buddha. in the end it all comes to a small hard egg of doubt. you are brittle and will waver. let it be known i love. you are the lily so fragrant my child. get me to nunnery.
