TALKING TO THE PLANTS

Six years since I asked you to live

here.

And all through, you’ve made the best

of cross-currents – salt air –

despite winters so cold

I half expect

to see your breath.

 

Six months on from last year’s summer

then,

and the short days have stretched.

But now this slowing, closing in

despite warm days when

I never expect the coldness of death.

 

Pot-bound,

your roots wrapped round

into hardened matted entrails

or 

The 

World’s 

Longest 

Fingernails

now carefully

teased 

out

free

ready for more space

crock, compost, water, shade.

Then I’ll settle in too, on the ground

with you, waiting

until: struck with a stick, 

the terracotta makes a ringing sound

calling for more water.