Brambling

 

Brambling

 

 

A hard time we had of it.

Pulling brambles in patches,

I mean –

 

those ivy leaves suckered

into sallow whitewashed brick

choking the very life

out of weaker plants

in thick patchwork quilts we ripped

through – layered veneers stripped

bare – yet,

 

even when we glimpsed light

there was more yet ready to fight,

clinging reluctant,

bound by weed,

 

and small black creatures

scuttle at speed

from top torn canopy leaves

conceal themselves

in the dank bottom weave,

watch indifferently

as brambled wrists

and fingers bleed.

 

Now, next door neighbour

and a second who neighboured her,

bustling and busty,

grin admiration,

call hullo, and kisses blow

upon the breeze

as we tear into where greenery

has created nation,

fashioned state within state,

erected thorn-barbed borders –

 

while we’re bellowing marching orders

up upon the garage top

like bunker-busters,

they’re still putting up stiff resistance,

 

while these smiling coquettes

look so pretty from a distance,

commend me on my stance

wonder if I’d like to dance

in gardens where her other thickets grow,

and I would, you know,

but did not deal with these yet.

 

And soon, I’m flying solo,

he’s gone, checking his phone,

comfort break and I’m alone -

abandons brush and spider rake,

 

I’m happy for him

to call it a day, please the boy,

and give him that half hour.

 

Later, under the shower,

minds race back to curt commands

issued from her sagging leather chair,

where little’s done

and nothing stirs.