Two Poems in Which


In which ‘if she has not a man in the house before the month is out, it is likely the little bit of land will be given to another’

My brother arrives with firewood
or as he says a useful table.
His sons walk the wrong way to the site
and they move the stones.
He tells me to stop worrying
and leaves in his hatchback.

I look up from the stones. The sky is red,
the horizon and path flicker
like a distant shop.
The conifers form a hex. Where I bow
them down they spring up again.


In which Hanrahan keeps bees

(shall I read a book?)
Books might stop the stories
that fall from his mouth.

(Loose teeth, sea winds,
processionary stones.)

The glade has been harvested
for brooms and hollyhocks
look back for no-one.

He parts the cards and the moons
wax and wane.
His hands are young again as hazel.

Mum crawls from the deck
followed by a swarm of drones.
I take any book and read out.

I turn onto my front holding on
to the bottom of the boat.

He takes my palm like a map and says
he will build my box
out of fallen trees.

Megan Watkins

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