Cutting Lavender

From the yard’s galvanised subconscious, I watch

the kids retreat, wielding cartoon Excaliburs

summoned in, like their mates, from evening that pushes

with moths’ shoulders at the broken bobbins.

The sparse stalks seem to bend under its weight

but there’s no regret in this small theft of a moment,

understanding more clearly how we hold

to what is least permanent.

A patina of porchlight settles on a child's silhouette,

flywire-framed, Byzantine. Perhaps these acrid tufts

emerging to the rain are like laws waiting

to unfurl in some untended allotment of the universe.

How dark the Western sky is tonight.

A massive wingbeat overwhelms streetlights.

I can only tell the wind has come up

because the lavender is trembling, its tiny movement

a beat in time with the Pleiades scudding

like sleep across the lawn

ever clearer for being seen

from the corner of my eye.

​

Lost River Review June 2014