Michael Ponsford
Elder
This morning, they cut back the hedges
In the lanes behind the house; blackthorn
And beech ripped white at their tips
As the machine wreaked its progress.
Now, walking at dusk, I find in the wrecked
Hedge a broken thing, misshapen nub of elder
Like a deformed skull, a knot-hole for an eye,
And four thin horns. Or spindles, say.
They keep green life yet. The buds are perfect.
Cut these supple with a good knife, nudge
Them in soft loam, they’ll grow. But the skull
Is iron-heavy, clumsy. Throw it to the hedge.
Yet half a mile on, in closing dusk, the urge
To turn and cross the Bannon bridge again,
Feel for its shape, hold it. And take it home.
In a passing car’s headlights, some sort of shame.
Page(s) 23
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