Do not speak to me of space.

Speak to me of pond and frog,

the sun-grown plants, not

the thieving moon above.

 

Speak to me of pond and frog.

Won’t lie out on a fleece blanket.

I’d stink-eye the thieving moon but

I will not look up

 

so do not call the sky a holy blanket

or wash my clothes under wincing stars.

I will not look up,

find clouds like rings of smoke. Love,

 

you washed our clothes under winking stars,

and you scattered like a dandelion clock

into rings of smoking clouds. Love,

I keep my eyes on the roots and willows,

 

blow your kisses at dandelion clocks,

can’t stand to catch a leaf falling,so

keep my eyes low – on roots and willows,

the fleshy sod, the stream I know is steady.

 

I can’t stand to catch a leaf falling,

or to feel the sun fatten young plants.

I stare at sod and the stream I know is steady

will not speak to me of space.

 

First published in  Poetry Scotland 70, 2011.