Writings

9. Jul, 2020

Convolvulus Arvensis

Perennial weed or faery transformation,
It clambers over hedgerows in banks of translucent
White.
Strumpet wide flowers and art nouveau leaves
Dangle decadent garlands from railway arches,
Bell pulls and lianas for the butterflies and bees.
A stand of dead wood blooms with its eerie allure,
Sprung up as strange as a spell.
It owns sprite names from the time of tales;
‘Withy wind’, ‘creeping jenny’, ‘bellbine’ ‘possession vine’
And ‘wild morning-glory'.
Convolvulus tangles through Summer thickets,
Draping sharp brambles in softly enticing bouquets.
It is as fragile as magic, though.
Pluck it and its flowers wither in moments,
Leave it and it runs riot below ground,
Gathering a goblin strength in the dark
To wind out further into the world.
Ethereal as a promise of something pure,
It comes from that ‘other’ side,
Strangling and choking all the tender things,
Which it nestles through to climb.

Ruth Enright

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.