Glen Wilson

A Line of Hawthorns

I break the spine and each page is a turning
over of soil, new descriptions and terms
for movements of a second nature, relearning
ridge and furrow in black and white.
I measure pH balances, soil composition,
then picture sods of grass that the tractor spins up
from my father’s lower fallow field. I know
which earth crumbles, which holds its shape.

I see my father getting down from the tractor cab,
his eye his plumb line as he charts the angle,
adjusts the tread as if to say, We’ll start here.
Years have refined and exaggerated the process.
But the action is still the ploughshare following
the coulter.

Opening the Gates

A rag of white hung on the rails,
a small fleck of blood at the corner
where the t-shirt had ripped.

What drew them to the park at night?
I drag my litter picker
and bag of refuse sacks inside.

They have set one of the bins
on fire, another is sprayed
Freedom in dark green.

One of the tundra swans calls,
whoo-whoo, three dappled chicks
waddle under her wings.

I almost don’t see him, the cob,
as the tall reeds sway, as if
they could claim him.

His neck lies a half-heart
in brown leaves, crisp packets
and a crushed Harp can.