Poetry - Issue 21 | October 2014

Two poems by Jane Kirwan


Slabce

At the end of March, there’ll be no leaves,
the walnut trees will drip black ribbons –
blossom killed by frost last May.
The lane will be mud,squelching with slush
and rotten pears, we’ll need our boots.
I’ll turn on the water,count the mole-hills;
you’ll take apples to the horses in the field,
some roses might have survived.
You’ll go to the bottom lane, switch on the electricity,
my lavender and herbs will be dead.
We’ll light the stove and air the bedding
then stop to watch the red squirrel leap
through the silver birch.
Roxy’s plastic bucket will be by your blueberries.
You’ll say the raspberry bushes have signs of life
and the lilacs are thriving,
will start to prune the apple trees.
I’ll clean the fridge,
put coffee in the pot, find my lost sweater.
We’ll stand under the old cherry tree,
look out at the forest,
mist under the junipers. It will still be cold,
the woodpecker will have started prodding the lime,
you’ll say you’re giving up on garlic,
it will be so quiet.

 1 2 >


About the author

Jane Kirwan was born into an Irish family in England, started travelling as a baby, escaped to work in Nigeria, got stuck in London but dragged the poor child all over the world; once the daughter was eighteen she said: I’m off a life in the Czech Republic, without to be honest much thought except desire for a builder. In love with Irish rain and French trains, Jane’s favourite time away has been travelling alone through India. Read or visit her online.

More in the archive »