They languish here, without their mother plant;
she lies upon the rotting compost heap
beside two tiny siblings and an aunt,
all seeping slowly into endless sleep.
The earthy life had been so glorious,
the warmth and wet within the sweet-scent soil;
first lonely, they became uproarious
once they had swelled enough to rock and roil
and prod each other’s skins – brr-ush, rrr-ub –
while penetrating with their outstretched eyes
and shuddering inside the close-fit hub
again again again... and then, surprise:
a sudden brightness, cutting, scrubbing, weak
and withering. A kettle boils. A shriek.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Felicity
Teague would be pleased to hear them.