FORGET ME NOT


There are sink holes in the back garden

where I stash the stems of subconscious
longing along with feathers plucked
from the stale fights over ownerships
of books and bonds. When early morning
climbs drowned dream with blinding light
there’s an impulse to uncover boulder
used to bury hole and reach in to touch
all I threw out. Sometimes shadows shift
in said garden and the conscious is alerted
in time for consideration to be abated.
At other times, the arm always feels
blighted when it comes back up, empty
and unchanged but for the tiny pleas
the squashed stems have ripped
and rooted into fooled flesh- last shoots
from forget-me-nots I’ve tried to untie.

  

All words and photographs y Damien B Donnelly

 

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