by Christopher Barnes

(after Ezra Poundís The Garden)
Hollyhocks on her orlon midi blouse
gum up infectious railings.
A sundial fields this exquisite birdcage.
Blue-mould sky is analgesic
applying pressure on plumago, kingcup, buddleia.
Explosions have arisen, fixed:
coming out hop, a love-lyric from Mosley,
a hundredweight of turning traitors,
vehement months.
At 80 her keepsakes are cliff-edged.
Beige-cheeked sprogs
blah-blah through the side-path
to Comprehensive doors.
Swankpots, stiff-necked,
flagrantly dressed and feisty,
starkly alive.

Mothballed by Christopher Barnes

© Copyright 2007. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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