For My Father
Plant me a thicket on a patch of land
by the river. Fill in the foundations
of two dozen homes about to be built.
The air will be damp this August morning
and filled with a vinegar sharpness
from fruit ripening on briars.
A cluster of nettles will be weaving through
the skeletons of old farm machinery,
a pox of rust eating their metal.
A crow will hop along, one wing splayed
with a shimmer of mould-green on the tip.
It will peck a branch, tell me its beak still works.
There will be a reel of wire, sprung away
from the fence. I will trip and it will coil back
the long stretch of years into itself.
Published in Glass, 2016