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From PERSIMMON Terra Secreta This land guards old bones. Draped loosely shaped puppy-folded, creased, tucked in with moss so no chalk scar can draw the eye, the landscape holds its secrets. Conspiracies of brambles knit and weave stitch and chain the thick lianas of wild clematis and eglantine. Sleeping-Beauty thorns embroider a soft cloak mist gathers in the lanes and bostals slide like vipers under bugloss scrub.
Tumuli crouch half-hidden in these fields. This land guards old bones. Persimmon Here in the persimmon garden I am eating a persimmon sucking its fibres drinking the south.
I have tasted fresh almonds grapes off the vine, cupped furry quinces heavy in my hand tested lemons against my cheek.
I have eaten a persimmon – taken the fruit too soon, trespassed on its due season, for it becomes sweet only when softened by frost.
I am without entitlement to this warm kingdom.
Her Plait I talk to you softly brushing your hair your wonderful hair stroke after stroke till it falls like a fan spread wide on your back. The weight of it – rope-thick, shiny as conkers spilt
from the case (hellebore green, hellebore white) new to the light. Now I divide it fold it and fold it under and over three-ply-strong as a spell. And when in the evening I loosen your plait it will fall into ripples stream over pebbles seal-slippery weasel-wild a force of nature. My joy, my pride. |
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