In the Garden
They fill trugs from the outdoor tap
and let them spill, pull up new shoots
in soft fists, manhandle dandelions.
Part of the language of jackdaws and mice
they weep and laugh, claw dark-eyed
for toys, hunks of ripped bread;
a hand's-breadth from malice or delight.
The sky whistles round them; a breeze
they hardly feel. It ripples in old boards,
disturbs the pods, the weakened roses.
Broken cloud lets down a shower;
the boys soak themselves in its gift.
The air stills and cools; they pause in its solstice.
Adult shadows lengthen from the house.
Dee
The Dee oozes
over itself, the rink of quicksand
sucks and wallows,
a breathless membrane.
We trawl the dimpled pools,
your hair torn cotton, a stiff coral,
long skirt rippling up,
the spooky wooze of ghost.
We drop salt on piped heaps
to make the razors rise.
Tricked by the sprinkles
they smack in our buckets.
In dun rock-pools red worms
twist in suspense;
anemones with stings poised
stand waiting to be fed.
Here is resurrection’s
small horizon. The crumble
of gulls and far off water.
A false promise of salt.
Your dry cough starts to saw.
We walk back, your hand
thin as bird-bones, the rinds
of plastic washed ashore.
The tide spills out again,
leaves its hieroglyphs.
We make do with what we can
decipher.
____________
Daniel Fraser is a poet and critic from Hebden Bridge, Yorkshire, living in West Cork. His work can be found in: London Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, Magma, Poetry London and elsewhere. His chapbook Lung Iron is published by ignitionpress.
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