The Nuns Garden

Catch – smell gooseberries,

blackcurrants. 

Feel the seeds

in the Nun’s Garden,

blood-stained stamens

stayed with him,

a blue Nun’s cross

a river never crossed.  

Shush – the sisters are sleeping

amongst themselves 

their talents

sipping tea roses to eternity. 

Here he hugs the tree

with the mad bark

thinking of heavy berries

that hung ripe, unpicked,

heaving in wind, out of reach,

of his fingertips.