GOING TO GROUND II: BITING WINTER’S APPLE
It’s winter and my body is shrouded;
My spark, I know, ﬂickers thin beneath its cloak.
As I ascend and wind up to the gallery,
It is as though climbing a tree to get a view.
And whilst damp shoppers cling in the marketplace,
I am up here, peering on tip-toe into
A row of awkward brown dwarﬁsh pots
With gold inside them, each thinly lined with leaf.
Their porridgy domesticity on the shelf
Protects an inner glow, soft as morning light;
A glowing gaze, subtle as a wallﬂower,
Or the lacey ﬁsh-tail sweep of a Spring tide;
Each wave shading the almost-too-bright glory
Of the next up-and-coming shaft of water;
And so shielding my wintered eyes
From mining too sudden a spray of sun.
I turn, and see plates spinning on the walls,
Depicting ocean currents, meanders in the wild;
Eye-catching, but in their perfect roundness
I am saying ‘they contain their substance so safely!’
And it’s not that I want to smash them, but
Their shiny, smirking platefulness leaves me emptied.
Meanwhile silver birch is shouting ‘Our planet is wild!’
I echo back, ‘These aerial views can’t bite the bullet.’
So the mirror mirror is on the wall,
And the snow-white wintered poet
Is looking for the fairest, what will truly enthrall
And ﬁnds in the corner a cabinet of jewells,
Where inner and outer realms begin to chime.
A copper studded bumble bee, a Pollen Punk
And arrow-brooch of amethyst, emblazoned Corroded Dweller;
Biting the apple she goes down, down, down to ground.
Black Swan Arts Winter Show, Frome
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