4th February 2026

 

morning in Eymet

gathering the sweetest grass

happy old boy

© Rachel Green February 2026

On the Discarding of Heads

I cannot remember the name attached

to the head of the blond young man in my hands

At some point he must have been important

my sense of Reason informs me; rather coldly,

I thought, though Memory just shrugs and says "Whatever."

and there is no sense of urgency about this man;

perhaps a college friend or client of the wilder days

when I was younger and in need of ready cash

for paint or canvas or just for electric meter meals.

I send him on to the realm of the dead and wonder

if his white-toothed smile was ever really real

or just a social construct. Today there was a tuppence

face up on the dirt floor of the old cattle shed;

loose change that fell from denim pockets

when trousers were at ankle height;

a discarded condom hung like a trophy from a rusty nail.

© Rachel Green February 2026