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foxgloves 

Foxglove

 
We were only making perfume from rose petals
and those leaves I plucked through the fence
that later would earn me a clip round the ear
for stealing Mr Johnsonís lemon balm.
 
I canít remember if we dabbed the dark potion
on our wrists like that poor woman in Salisbury
who was accidentally handed death in an atomiser
by a lover so poor he got it from a dustbin.
 
How lonely I was in Hull in that garden
with the espaliered pear on the garage wall
and the red, white and blue border
and those raspberries full of maggots.
 
Next week I will go back there and peer in,
dare myself to swing on our back gate
next to Gillie Tiveyís house and push my thumb
inside the soft finger of a foxglove.

Carole Bromley


If you have any thoughts on this poem, Carole Bromley would be pleased to hear them.

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