Beet and moles

We walked where there was no one else.
Only looking at the earth
You would dig with your fore finger
Looking for the seed planted ten days before
Was there life ?  Or did it sit unshot?
The air would seem fresher when seed had shot
Several places tested
Internal smiles marked the start of the year
The best soil warm and crumbly, and damp below

Pulled up sharply by edgy tone
A breath-holding statue
Til you pounced with your heel down
Exposing the tunnelling creature that threatened your young plants
You gave it to me dead .. But still warm.
I would examine the fabulous feet
Broad paddles of digging machine
I would sniff them. The clean, brown smell
smell of ‘home’
The soft velvet torpedo
carried home in your jacket pocket .
I could see the outline in the saggy tweed
With the greasy stain from years of rummaging
Always a piece of twine
And a knife
Nothing else.

Thistles ….

heels dug deep
quaff or curl ?
I wait,
noticing blue flowers in sprigs.
“Elasticated”, resistant to stretch,
No waist.
deeper in, bitten off.
matched up, sad
sourness bites on metal.
a gap opens.
blood, filling blister,
 the base of my big toe
against hard ground.


nobody would suspect this rage,
the intensity a secret with shallow breath
violence erupted, spread sideways
passionate blood red; hidden
A shocking red.
shame mixed with excitement
threads through the eye of a needle
Stitching up
repaired ?  impaired ?
your coolness a veneer,
polished in part,
keeping the ‘joker’ up your sleeve.
comforted by an arsenal of weapons
that supposedly keep you safe,
unless they misfire
and murder the wrong victim

Jane West