The Garden

Stops his ears,
taps his eyes.
Slants into a mulch of memories,
spacing a burrow where the orchid will fatten.

Marigolds work well with hay.
Bougainvillea’s burst holes in through plastic pots,
prodding out of the earth, up to the terrain,
biting their nails, crowning their thorns.

Picks at the stones that pull the roots,
ploughs his senses like a father would.
One daughter short with the pair of
size five boots sitting by the helmet
she wore on the horses; jodhpurs and sticky reins,
trotting around barbs, cantering around the source.

She’s gushing from her chest, barrelled with blood.
He remembers her teeth being stained red
looking like humans do when we bleed from our mouths,
or after too much red wine.

Thoughts of her hold him to ransom
so he squats in the garden with no moments to give away.
Picks at the pitiful soil,
crumbs of humble pie,
while the sheep that has no mother
strides by him for good measure.

Dusk now, and he stops picking at stones.
Flicks the lighter, the cigarette offering hope among
the darkness of a western sundown where he
dismisses the loneliness and balks at a sitting crow.

The Garden

Carly-Jay Metcalfe

Joined December 2007

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