The ground is dry as I dig down to the
roots of the oak tree. I place your
necklace, my hair and the heart of a pig into the hollow, and smooth it over
with dirt.
I’m not a superstitious man. I never used to be a superstitious man.
#
I took time off.
I came to my parent’s Cornish cottage. I tended
flowers in the garden, made nooses from twine to keep the beans growing upright
while my spirit sagged and crumpled.
I tried to see hope in the spiralling of the
swallows, in the crocuses and the daffodils. Night smothered it, like heavy
black boots on saplings.
I am a city man. I used to be a city man.
I don’t know what I’m doing here.
#
I dreamt that you’d returned, as a
tree. I wrapped my arms around the knots
and curves of the trunk. I thought of your hair, falling down your spine, in
coils and waves. Butterflies and ladybirds
settled on you. I could hear your laughter in the rustle of the leaves,
trapped, as if at the back of a grate.
#
You were the pagan, I was the puritan. You left mascara on the sheets, I arranged
our DVDs. You kept silver nail varnish
in the fridge, for your toes. I ironed
my collars. Opposites, who made a whole.
#
The children dance around the maypole, with
flowers in their hair.
A festival of fire, fertility, of re-birth,
new life.
I know that you’re never coming back, that
you’re part of the earth; that you can’t come back.
But maybe I can.
I light the sticks around the tree. This predates Christianity, predates all that
I was told.
I never went to Church; I was never a
religious man.
If this doesn’t work, there’s nothing.
No comments:
Post a Comment