and in the shop…
“Man Walking on Water with Tie Askew”,
The High Window;
They come up in the clag beneath the holly
where twigs collect and not much grows
but docks. Was it here a boy once found the space
to hang a hammock and practice lolling?
I see his book, the conscious grin…
The memory fades into the prickle
over these delicate bell-heads – back
after a dry summer, winter rain.
I buy seeds, fill compost trays,
water, try to think ahead – but find myself
kneeling to clear a collar around a clump
of fragile spears I’m sure I never planted.
It’s what’s here now which feels real.
Leaves poke from a stem I thought was dead.