Thursday, 21 June 2018

21st June 2018

blue sky
adds a hammer and sickle
to Midsummer


© Rachel Green 2018

four hours
to repair the portico
over the back door.
My temper not improved
by the wind taking my perspex sheet
and smashing it in half.
Can I afford another thirty quid?
Can I fuck.
Duct tape and jointing to the rescue
and just as I finish
the wind takes all my hard work
and smashes it to bits.


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

20th June 2018

outside work
wind gathers the clouds together
unripe apples


© Rachel Green 2018

electric shocks
freeze my hand in place
pain expelled as a long, low moan
until I shake myself loose
hours later,
the fingers tingle
and the bone aches
aches


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 19 June 2018

19th June 2018

pink tinged clouds
reflecting the edge of dawn
white roses


© Rachel Green 2018

wild strawberries
cover the ground beneath the walnut tree
tiny red berries no bigger than beads
but sweet as molasses from the tin.
the old corgi used to love them,
spending the day grazing
before I had a chance to gather.
Blackberries in August
dog walks spent snuffling
for those at knee-height;
plucked off gently
until the fur around her mouth
looked like she's been fighting
and won.

© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 18 June 2018

18th June 2018

honeybees
checking out the lavender
sleepless child


© Rachel Green 2018

whispers
in the liquid darkness
bring discontentment.
How many times must he take
the law of God to the streets?
Two boys holding hands
as they order women's drinks from the bar.
He takes another swallow of stout.
God's own drink,
according to the priest at St. John's,
and gods own weapon
a pocket knife with a crucifix handle.
the blood of the Unworthy
caressing the wounds of the Lord.
Another swallow.
Brewer's lace making patterns
on the iron legged table
while the Voice of God
speaks of Retribution
and the resurrection of the Pious.


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 17 June 2018

17th June 2018

deadheading
red roses in a pathway arch
sparrows by the cat


© Rachel Green 2018

minor keys
a sparrow on the kitchen floor
a present from the cat.
Now she want's feeding
because her teeth aren't what they were
and she can't crunch bone.
Into the compost it goes,
ungrateful human that I am
but at least it will enrich the soil
and be returned to the earth
a cycle of life
interrupted


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 16 June 2018

16th June 2018

overcast
threatening showers
elder blossom rain


© Rachel Green 2018

overcast. threatening showers
twenty four degrees
dry


mother's diaries
identical in size and shape
date from 1972
to her death in '78
the 'dairy daily diary'
each one purchased from the milkman
who delivered glass bottles daily
and came on Friday to settle up.
Nothing personal.
There are no thoughts recorded
nor memorabilia fastened in
with Sellotape long dry;
no mentions of birthdays,
special events
what made her happy
or sad.
Just the weather
and if there was frost
or a hailstorm in July.

Will my children think the same
if my writings survive me?
daily haiku,
daily poems.
My youngest doesn't remember their own childhood,
just misremembered anecdotes
like me feeding them lettuce
and them giving it to he dog.


 © Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 15 June 2018

15th June 2018

poppy seeds
blowing from paper houses
nacreous bubbles


© Rachel Green 2018

films of fresh colour
sweep over white canvas
oil over water
without the seventies stench
of a decomposing pig
floating down the canal
tangled with sticks and carpet weed.
We throw stones
watching them bounce off
distended trampoline skin
and pretend to push each other in
as if death is something to catch
completely unaware
we're already terminal
and young Davey,
a teenager at seven
will be dead by Christmas.


© Rachel Green 2018