* * * *
Stings
Spring's dusk lingers in plaited shadows,
enters the garden, wades into weeds
and grass. Hands clear a way through
hairy leaves of nettle, grasp blue-eyed
forget-me nots, yellow daisies, violets.
Stalks smelling of damp ground twist; petals
recline on fingers, wrists purple with stings.
Pulp-heap of flowers at his side, he picks
a bunch of nettle, fastens it with black wire,
walks into the house. On the mantlepiece,
his wife's picture, daisies in dark hair, pierces
him with metal blue eyes. Her lips, half hiding
sharp teeth, conceal venomous tongue tip.
He places the nettle bouquet in a marble vase.
Red marks all over aching hands and arms,
he scratches, rubs, scratches, smiles.
* * * * *
When I was A Poem
he told me naked breasts were doors to gardens,
and amber nipples, bells to ring or buds to pick
for muse discreet, disguised in pallid skin.
He told me how he could then write his love
and living lines on bare thighs' layers
of tangled wilderness where lyrics jumped like deer.
He would then versify on ripeness
of roly-poly ass, gold-glowed sliced melon.
Alas, he turned to painting. On worn out
canvas, I rest in faded still-life form.
* * * * *
The Shape of Friendship
The tree grew out of seeds scattered by the wind.
Years twisted cracked trunk against the orchard fence.
Solitary branches curved downward as if in shame.
It produced lush leaves and promises of fruit
that never came, and shadows sliciced light
on grass. At sunset, a red, gold-beaked bird
circled it twice before perching on the highest branch.
Every evening the tree had its fruit, a glimpse of red
and gold in the foliage, picked up by morning air.
The trunk's cracks showed black wounds. The tree was cut.
There is a pool of space and light, there. The red bird
circles the air, draws the shape of the tree against sunset.
Every evening its cry resounds, higher, higher.
* * * * *
(c) Paula Grenside