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The thrush is missing, some days
I heard him tapping the snails on the anvil stone
By the path, a sacred road, made so by my regard
Of the bird and his rhythms, some days
I could smell the white flow of perfume
From the locust tree, manna falling from pendulous mouths
Some days, the low sun caused its limbs to glow red
One day it was strangled by ivy and its body gone
Some days my body was perching in my mind
Some days my mind entered the hedge holes of my body
Some days, all I ever did was look out of the window
Never moving, in thrall to my sentience
Each of the strawberries were my babies
I birthed them slowly over many years
One day they were all gone, as if they had never been
It matters little, if a cold wind shoots down the ginnel
Every fractal of the wren’s call is notated

I have these very small particles
Worn synapses of steps and alleys and paths
A garden full of old worn out thoughts
Muddy boots by a door, a rotted presence
Lilies ghosting out of cracked terracotta
A slow worm shimmering on the hot stone
Staining silence with his tiny shooting tongue
A stone, a star, a wren.

It is as if this never happened
Is happening anyway.

Veronica Aldous  2019 all rights reserved


Hare of Cups

The Crack’d Mirror