The Yard At Waterside

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