I have been here a year
and the trees haven’t forgotten
how I saw their fruits scattered
and let them rot.
Nor has the grass forgiven my neglect
or my curiosity
to let it grow waist-high. Still,
scars of honeysuckle, the purple tint
of berries left fat, fertile, Havisham sour.
Insects plague the disgrace
of pulp. Sink mouth parts darkly.
Whisper of jams unmade
and jars unused for pickle. Of an Aga
heavy with snow drift
of tea towels.
The garden tells of soiled gluttony
and how small a descent we face.
Each resin rich twig,
each sun spread leaf
covers the dreams we shelter
in sheds. Water in secret.
We lock our windows.
All content ©2009 Lizzy Dening
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