Comfrey   My mother's mothers planted Knit-bone in the mill-towns' plots and back-to-backs, watered country wisdom, passed it on to girls uprooted between worlds.   Tiny bell-flowers flecked with soot, hairy leaves large as a man's hand, (his strength to break or hug) a wedding heirloom to each daughter-bride -   a piece of Bruise-wort root for each new wife, newspaper wrapped Black-wort, a turnip with a coal-caked crust, pale fleshy inside, out of its element, oozing sticky tears,   transplants her to a woman's world where  Comfrey's bitter tea could cure when cures were few and love would risk it all; could poison others, speed them to the earth.   The leaf too looks two ways: the rough will draw the badness from a wound, while smooth side heals and mends: most potent if it's picked while just in bud.

Maggie Butt

If you have any comments on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.