Our weeping fig has wept. She dropped her
waxy leaves at night, embarrassed.
When we bought her she had a full head
of beautiful green - now she is a witch's broom,
a mess of spindly branches dry as
the skin covering your elbow.
She stands on a girl's fat plait with the wood fusing in places.
We'll cut off her head with a hack-saw and
salvage the trunk - we'll hang it up on the door.
I peel skin from my back
and arrange it into a pile.
A long day beached on the dunes
brilliant yellow heat
and the harvest here before me
bonfire of dead cells
part delicate as angels' wings
part opaque and cracking.
I scrape the evidence into the bin
and rub moisture into my new, red skin.
 |
Fiona Robyn is currently working in Reading as a coach/trainer and dipping her toe into the world of 'life-coaching' (although not keen on the label). Likes fresh snow and fresh bread, dislike wasting time and fleas. Poems in Rialto, Other Poetry etc., and on Stirring, Poetry Kit, <this> etc. Pamphlet with Flarestack, first book offer bound to come through any day now! |
In this issue:
Esther Altshul Helfgott : Michelle
Cameron : Alison Daniel : Deborah
Finch : Jean Frances :
Fiona Robyn : Elisabeth
Spinks : Sandy Steinman : Tasha
: Tilotamma : Georgie
Young