Foxglove
Rough hands
The open ended
Tending
For life
In this chalked over
Bite
Of soil
Worms and cat
Piss
Be damned
Ignored
Amidst
Packets of seeds
Dry
Expectant
In the barren
Echo chambers
Stained with
Small blight
Residue of last years
Failed perennials
Soils that seem
To collect rocks
Like rainwater
Save the draining.
Foxglove
I tend
To pull
This dirt up
In sparkles
And turn the stones
To mica
Splashed between
The sun and
Shadows
Looking damp
As if to quench
Though offering
Hope in
The cast-off shapes
Of stalks I
Pulled out
Piece by piece
Last year with my
Arms all crossed
To stop the flint
Caged inside
My ribs
From being sodden
By the storms
Some plant life
Seems to
Carry.
This year
Foxglove,
Is no different
My chin
A spade
I’m making
Place for you
By shaking my head yes
Or no
Learning how
To till the soils best
Most oxygenated
And minerals peopled
In healthy
Numbers
I’m counting
The hours
Until the bells
Ring
In your blooms
I think
They’d sound
Like milk drops
The dew
I taste
In new growth
Your petals
Cupped in joy
Like feet flexed
Dancing
With root systems
Made proverbs
Answering
My questions
In anachronisms.
The wind returned
Fibrous,
Vegetal
And familiar.
these words by Keah Hansen were inspired by the work of Olaf Hajek
wordandcolour 