Glass Houses
The gardener’s breath comes quick, her movements slow
with fingers dry as moths
she trims dead leaves and gathers blackened seeds
then tests her grit, one finger in each pot
Last, lifting up a bottle, turns the tap
a hollow drumbeat thump
of heavy water, rushing through the neck
a grumble that recedes the more she runs
Thin shoulders form a frown, she lifts the weight
between the knotted twine
above pine shelves’ corpse flies and dusty cracks,
sharp scent of sulphur, rust and broken vines
Counting to three, she satisfies each plant
then reaches for her glass
she drains it once then tops it up again
burl fingers on a chest like girdled grass.
Vicky Ellis lives on the wet edge of Lancashire. Her poetry fluctuates between toilet humour and a poorly disguised desire to be middle class. She has won an award and a few prizes but isn’t sure what to do with them.