THE BIRD FEEDER
Almost every inch
of our garden
knotted in green.
Shears in hand,
tackle beastly overgrown.
Hard at it.
Garden far end,
corner favourite suntrap
to bare both
chest and soul.
Playing with words,
poetry about Mum.
A small bird
cops a worm.
Takes a peck
but not devours.
Worm will not
give up fight.
Serious wiggle action
outsmarts the bird.
Red breasted Robin.
Mum loves robins,
I’ll tell her.
Bird flies away,
worm wiggles on.
The robin returns.
The penny drops,
Mum liked robins,
would’ve told her.
Getting used to
referring to mum
in the past.
Using past tenses.
Past simple tense.
Past perfect tense.
Past continuous tense.
The hardest adjustment,
however much practice
five months on.
Hang bird feeder
from tree branch.
Watching robin discover
bird feeder from
chair indoors, sitting
with stiff joints.
Mum used to
say, few birds
in her garden.
Bird flies away.
Soars to sky.
Out of view.
Please visit Mum.
Send my love.
Return before long,
letting me know
how Mum is
in present tense.
THE TREE MAN
It’s early Summer
Dad is out the back again
Gardening in between cricket from the Ashes
If it’s not football, it’s the cricket
He’s digging a hole to plant a bush
Not digging where squirrels stash their Winter food.
It’s now mid-Winter
Dad is out the back again
Squirrels feast on nuts and berries
He’s digging a hole to bury ashes
They say we are created from nothing
Dust to dust
and that we go back to nothing
Ashes are not nothing
Dead things in this living world are never really dead
Ashes grow inside those the deceased leave behind
Mum planted her ashes inside me
Seeds that grow until they become tree
Trunk in my belly
Roots in my legs.
It’s late Spring
Dad is out the back again
Tiny branches with leaves poke out through my ears
Branch out my mouth
A small bird has made its nest
Its unborn chicks are ready to hatch
Dad would plant me in the garden
if I didn’t look so peculiar
I am mobile tree
carrying Mum wherever I go
Let the memory of Mum be the fire in my belly.
OLFACTORY
Wearing a palimpsest
of the past
in the present.
Smells mark those
we have lost,
but made alive
again through the
power of scent.
I’ve been wearing
perfume left behind.
My Mum’s perfume
Calvin Klein’s ‘Contradiction’.
Its label reads
‘unisex’, I would
wear it anyway.
Its scent helps
heal my pain.
Just one spray,
immerses me in
olfactory sensations that
bring Mum alive
in the present.
Still with me.
That last bottle,
she left behind,
now on my
bedroom fireplace mantlepiece.
Nearing its end,
I keep those
remaining drops unsprayed.
Flights, Issue Thirteen, August 2024
Flight of the dragonfly 