But The Hawthorns Are Sticky


O'er stone paths the roses grow still as a ditty,
  When light lamps are paling the ripe summer oil;
  With a noise that the left ear blocks rushed in a hurry,
The hawthorns are fierce, till the black thorns are pretty.

Where the mind is at once full of peace, full of pieces,
  In shrubs there are stubs made from wagtails and hen,
  Tin, copper, unfathomed: a marvellous city,
In comfort the day loses its din as it ceases.

  Skimming at milk with the tightest lipped marrow, 
Left hands, right lobes singed, as it curdles to putty;
  The bones of the fair-folk are lost in the morrow,

 And our hands meet the roses, so we'll grasp them in pity.
Our four feet go kicking, at that hard wall we're sitting; 
 But the hawthorns are wet, and the hawthorns are sticky.

© copyright Eve Redwater 2012

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11 thoughts on “But The Hawthorns Are Sticky

  1. I feel like a small creature sitting kicking my heels on the stone wall on a wintry wet day–a child? A gnome? A fairy?–surrounded by the pleasant scent of autumnal decay in slanting light.

  2. The skill you show in your lines and language is really special. Image piles on image, and though sometimes you leave the story to the reader to construct–in this poem the phrase, “Our four feet go kicking”–leaving us to wonder just who the poet is, the music and beguilement are strong enough to make the reader want to sit on that wall, “Where the mind is at once full of peace, full of pieces.” I have read a number of your poems now, and I am impressed by your talent.

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