There are trees of peculiar shape

at the bottom of my garden – branches made strict,

glued

with magpie feathers

and an ungodly green bottle neck

trunk.

 

They wink in the sight of a distant sun –

sanded down, a rare pink hue

but pistol gripped,

and a hot diamond snap

over the horizon.

 

My throat is sore –

swallowing, corseted,

and inaudible.

I put my hands to my mouth,

lips burnt with paracetamol,

and feel the sneer of red within.

 

Something tells me the outside

is closing down.

The pond is still, greased with silver

bloated fish, their bellies to the surface –

formaldehyde jellies –

and their mouths, tender,

stripped of sound.

 

I have an urge to run to the sea.

 

The grass is gone. A copper cough

and heavy –

my boots shock; the weight

I hold somewhat sickened,

muscles pulled down

and embalmed. I feel

a metal constraint –

 

my ribs, when I breathe,

and my hip bone

knotted at my side.

The colours of my sleeve

read an algae yellow

and the count at my wristwatch –

 

something from which I cannot bear to part.