" I Never Showed You the Yews "
I never showed you the Yews.
They line one side of the coppice-
tangled thick bark, twisting for light.
I must tell you
the Yews never die.
A new shoot grows through dead wood
where old branches turn brittle-
ready for sleep.
These ancient trees really do have
an everlasting heartbeat.
A new house.
Boxes unopened on oak floors,
blue plates edged with small brushstrokes of Pinks
stacked unevenly on mother's well waxed bureau.
I could have rented
somewhere along Drewer's Point--
A big, old converted barn perhaps,
or one of the small white cottages
squashed together in a row below the folds of land
nipped and tucked by the coast.
How much of a recluse would I need to be
to find Drewer
beyond the window pane?- sunken in the valley
where time stops and silence drifts on the back of the heather.
Boxes, crates,
ornaments wrapped in newspaper
and the mismatch of tired furniture
scatter around the edges of my decision
to stay here
in the city.
I wonder now, as traffic drags the street outside,
if he would have been worthy of my sacrifice,
I scour the words
again--
Over and over, until they no longer make sense
smudging the paper
with a knotted black stain
© 2004 E V Brooks (lia)
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