anna dickie
My Plot
I will seek the finest mole-riddled loam
and grow taproots of carrot and parsnip.
I will stop all dandelion clocks, but spare
patches of stinging nettle, for Red Admirals,
and sorrel for soup. I will graft russet
apples onto old rootstock, Pippins,
Pearmains, and Egremonts.
I will gather dye plants, yellow flag,
the rhizomes for colour-washed skies,
soft green from its sharp-edged blades,
the seeds for apricot. Lady’s Bedstraw,
bracken and lichen for crimson, ochre
and henna hues, to suffuse a cold heart
on bitter days.
Pattern Repeat
Furious scratches from high up on their side
of the adjoining wall, a giant pawing
at that hard-to-reach-spot midway
between shoulder blades.
Flock and floral, tatty and timeless
all peeled back, all stripped away
to reveal a bare wall
on which a fresh start can be hung.
Sometimes I hear the child cry in the night,
hear the mother stumble and call, as I lie
awake, ready to shed this house,
with its papered cracks and porous walls.
A hut would do. Pitch up, pass through,
keep it simple, that’s the key.
