Michael Farley
Ash's Edge
Hollow in the afternoon, dry hogweed’s
high blackened thuribles rasp and chitter
under the ash’s edge
in not much wind.
These shrivelled docks, burned to stale lace
in their strap-halved acid reach
into years the copper roots have dreamed,
clutch their season under the ditch’s chill edge.
Each to our age we watch the bright hips
climb in the ash, or else
a black cap’s flick and scurry
under scraggly yellow hazels:
half a hedge the narrow wanting heart
can’t hold, telling its decades
of asking under the sun’s edge for what must be,
for that sweet gift its empty cusp implies.
Page(s) 24
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