Jennifer Copley
Ragwort
My mother slices tears in with the onions,
watching the ragwort’s little yellow flowers
grow stronger year by year, under the wall.
Sometimes her heart resents its strength,
its clouds of seeds,
the way it battles against hooves and flies.
She carefully lays out pork chops with kidneys,
fries them, slices up bread, makes tea.
At six o’clock I put on a jacket,
open a tin of peaches.
He never let her lift a heavy pan
so I drain the potatoes.
Page(s) 12
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