Acacia, Hedges & Oyster shells
by Paul Bavister
[ poetry - july 08 ]
Acacia
The acacia thrived
for three hot summers -
bright yellow pollen
between grey green spines -
the local bees
struggling it back
to overheated hives.
Then summer black clouds
tipped freezing rain
stripped the tree
to shiny white -
cracked branches creaked
with cormorants and gulls.
We went from fussing
over flowers and shrubs
to raising beds of sodden soil
with planks split
from the garage blocks.
That spring self sufficiency
went from dream
to reality, kept us hungry
for months until the gulls
took over the wrecked flats -
we scrambled up
with a nylon rope
filled our bags
with warm eggs and chicks.
Hedges
I cut the hedges late that year
after nests had emptied -
every early morning blast of birdsong
woke and worried me, the hawkless skies
the watery sunlight made me stare harder.
The hedgecutter juddered on overgrown twigs
got the neighbours jumpy -
sunless faces in the way of the blades:
'turn it off, stop this, cut that.'
Birds jittered along the splintered hedges
settled in the soaked trees.
I watched for what was worrying me
and then finally saw it -
a puddle filling without rain
moss floating on a sunny lawn
a hawk sweeping between silent hedges
a phonecall checking
I had definitely been paid.
Oyster shells
The spade bites through shells
sends up silver splinters
from mud grey -
oysters cleaned sold and eaten
when this garden was a market
or a single stall
outside a house
or a kitchen tip.
There's a smell here
only humans can create.
I chop through a riverbed's
grit grey to yellow clay.
I'm not hopeful about this soil
its coldness will hold back flowers
feather buds with mould.
We plant willows to soak up
the floods soon to break
through broken clay -
stems to ride the rising water,
hold oysters to their feathered roots.
