Half a Smile

Half a Smile

This is the gleam of a twilight garden,
 trees blacken against a deepening blue,
 irregular branches backlit in soft yellow.
 Afterglow leaking from kitchens, where meals begin
 as base elements, deciphered by experts
 into the shapes of hopeful yearning.

 The moon is a half-smile –
 I observe her like an alchemist,
 measuring with my iris, lifting my right hand
 to pinch between thumb and finger -
 a memorial flame lit long ago in ceremony.

 Sometimes, I pity my own need for idolatry,
 but I cannot convince myself that other things work.
 I can never rule this garden, its organic surge and flow,
 that goes on and on, with the moon’s turning tides.

 In comparison, I am nothing. I cannot speak rain or rhizome,
 yet I shudder in pride as early bulbs prick soil seams, and reach skywards.

 At night, my garden is full of ghosts. The old rose that once
 vapoured the air, sleeps in her prostrate body. The moon levitates
 over peace trowelled into old borders- willow points, an ancient Cotswold steeple.

 The half-smile lingers, fragile as rice paper, hard as a bone.
 A watchful mother, catching sight of me in all my truths,
 an eye pressed to the keyhole, looking in from another world.

 I have not fallen. I lie in the moonlit garden and feel the trees,
 alive in the cold sharp glow, through xylem, movement - ascending light.

Alison Jones

Alison Jones is a teacher, and writer with work published in a variety of places, from Poetry Ireland Review, Proletarian Poetry and The Interpreter’s House, to The Green Parent Magazine and The Guardian. She has a particular interest in the role of nature in literature and is a champion of contemporary poetry in the secondary school classroom. Her pamphlet, ‘Heartwood’ was published by Indigo Dreams in 2018, with a second pamphlet. ‘Omega’, and a full collection forthcoming in 2020.

https://www.indigodreams.co.uk/alison-jones/4594492474