‘Finding the Keys’

The set seed and the first bulbs showing.
The silence that brings the deer.
The trees are full of handles and hinges;
you can make out keyholes, latches in the leaves.
Buds tick and crack in the sun, break open
slowly in a spur of green.

*

The small-change colours of the river bed:
these stones of copper, silver, gold.
The rock-rose in the waste-ground
finding some way to bloom. The long
spill of birdsong. Flowers, all
turned to face the hot sky. Nothing stirs.

*

That woody clack of antlers.
In yellow and red, the many griefs of autumn.
The dawn light through amber leaves
and the trees are lanterned, blown
the next day to empty stars.
Smoke in the air; the air, turning.

*

Under a sky of stone and pink
faring in from the north and promising snow:
the blackbird.
In his beak, a victory of worms.

The winged seed of the maple,
the lost keys under the ash.


Poem written by Robin Robertson (born in 1955), Scottish poet and Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature



Many thanks to cathy1947 for hosting the Tiny Tuesday challenge, with this week’s theme of ‘Garage or Shed’. The garage here at the bungalow was once my late Dad’s domain, and all his bits and bobs are still there just as he left them. This tiny golden key to I-know-not-what is in a box full of hundreds of nails, screws, picture hooks and other tiny metal scraps of this and that. Though Dad has been gone ten years now, I still cannot disturb any of his things in the garage and may never do so because it’s all so very much the essence of him.

** Boiler Update ** Still not fixed, despite two more visits from the Vaillant engineer today (Tuesday). Apparently something has shorted in the motherboard and three more parts are now on order. He probably won’t have them until at least Thursday. Just been round to Christine and David’s to use their shower for the fourth day. Starting to lose my patience with Vaillant now.