Walk 3

Walk 3: no further than the lawn

i.
I venture out determined, bloodthirsty,
barefoot - nightgown, wellies and hat,
a form I'll remain in most of the day,
take secateurs to all that won't flower
and spade and boot and terrorising hands,
until thorns have made bedfellows of palms,
until ground is torn root, leaf and earth.
I intend to make an Eden, you see,
whatever Eden means in '22
hawthorn, blackthorn, oak,
toadflax and navelwort and dog rose
to adorn borders, tumble the walls,
lacquer edges in a scream for greener England,
belly rocking with garlic mustard and stitchwort.
Robin settles cockily on the turned earth,
the nettle gently strokes at a knee.
I cleaned the pond last week,
found newts there,
that is thank you enough for me.

ii.

Can I sleep in the space I said
fuck crocosmia,
fuck ivy, variegated or otherwise,
fuck bramble and cordaline
and pampas grass and bamboo,
can I collapse in exhaustion,
can I scream fuck walking,
fuck doing and reading and loving and singing a fucking song?
Fuck video games, and houses and compromise and growing old,
fuck raising children,
weeding and digging and sickness,
mind and body,
fuck sleep
and can I still
sink into the dirt bath I made,
wash these recently scorched wings
wake a woodpigeon of a woman?