Oilseed, by Beatrice Hughes

I am not a silent poet

We trod the traintrack thistle-verge in silence,
fanning midges, hopping sleepers. My lips
stained from blackberries, bursting
in their ripeness, bramble-plucked by hungry fingers.
Fissured earth stretched out like wounds,
baring veins in roots, a fine layer of dirt
stained the underside of my naked feet.
Nature was dead from the waist down,
her canopy was Paris-green but men tore
holes underneath it with their fingernails.
We stopped before the kissing gate
and he promised me a stream, behind
gauze bushes and felled trees. The air
was clammy there and sat like sweat between
my budding breasts.

……………..That Summer cooked wildgrass into whips,
and the oilseed cut punishing slits into my calves
as I ran home. The blackberries curdled into wine
inside my belly, and I could hear the Jackdaws laughing
as the dirt-paths scarred the softness of my feet.


link to my blog can be found…

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