Rachael Clyne
THIS WIND
rips through routines
flays skin flings
a watering can across the garden
of my mind its clatter
nags nerves seeks the tiniest
crack throws up what’s hidden
untethers grief loosens
my veneer rattles the
rawness in my chest
taunts my isolation
kills thinking with constant whine
its tin drum bangs against my frustration
spins me into
a cringing creature bleating mercy
with paws over ears to stop
it penetrating
I am an animal that thrives
in warmth perhaps a stir
of breeze in heat,
not this
howling.
TODAY THE LIGHT
on Shapwick Heath
flecked with diamonds how it
dapples the green then pools
slices through gaps silhouetted by
branch-fretwork it pirouettes
skips over willow leaves the ecstasy of
summer unleashed without us
a fledgling hops up a branch curious
to taste sallow seeds fluffy as itself
blown catkins carpet the still dark
of peaty water crisscrossed by
leafy peepholes to a daze of blue
and a lake mazed with yellow lilies
breeze tips corners of lily pads reveals
pale undersides like promises scattered
on leaves in song of chaffinch
cetti’s warbler calling in life
I too find myself
newly-fledged
WHEN THE CROWS DISAPPEARED
The first time I noticed the ash
was no longer decked with cronky shapes
perched atop-a-tree, like they do–
or did, I said to myself, Cor, stone the …
The tree was silent. It always held several,
squabbling over crusts, beaked from lawns.
Now even fat gobby woodpigeons,
scorn the bread, let it lie.
When we realised the crows had gone,
we knew without doubt
we were maggots in thrall
to shopping malls and shysters.
We knew we must grow
feathers, beaks and shape up,
or the eyes of the dead
would never close.
rips through routines
flays skin flings
a watering can across the garden
of my mind its clatter
nags nerves seeks the tiniest
crack throws up what’s hidden
untethers grief loosens
my veneer rattles the
rawness in my chest
taunts my isolation
kills thinking with constant whine
its tin drum bangs against my frustration
spins me into
a cringing creature bleating mercy
with paws over ears to stop
it penetrating
I am an animal that thrives
in warmth perhaps a stir
of breeze in heat,
not this
howling.
TODAY THE LIGHT
on Shapwick Heath
flecked with diamonds how it
dapples the green then pools
slices through gaps silhouetted by
branch-fretwork it pirouettes
skips over willow leaves the ecstasy of
summer unleashed without us
a fledgling hops up a branch curious
to taste sallow seeds fluffy as itself
blown catkins carpet the still dark
of peaty water crisscrossed by
leafy peepholes to a daze of blue
and a lake mazed with yellow lilies
breeze tips corners of lily pads reveals
pale undersides like promises scattered
on leaves in song of chaffinch
cetti’s warbler calling in life
I too find myself
newly-fledged
WHEN THE CROWS DISAPPEARED
The first time I noticed the ash
was no longer decked with cronky shapes
perched atop-a-tree, like they do–
or did, I said to myself, Cor, stone the …
The tree was silent. It always held several,
squabbling over crusts, beaked from lawns.
Now even fat gobby woodpigeons,
scorn the bread, let it lie.
When we realised the crows had gone,
we knew without doubt
we were maggots in thrall
to shopping malls and shysters.
We knew we must grow
feathers, beaks and shape up,
or the eyes of the dead
would never close.
© Copyright Rachael Clyne 2021
Rachael Clyne, a psychotherapist from Glastonbury, is published in journals and anthologies. Her prizewinning collection Singing at the Bone Tree (Indigo Dreams) concerns our relationship with nature and she is a climate activist. Her pamphlet Girl Golem (4word) concerns her migrant background and sense of otherness.
