PBS Poem of the month
The Wren
(for V.)
This will be your last life here. I see a dropsy helicopter,
choring along. A heron like a sickle reaps an Iron-Age sun. I see
the Caravan. You’ve been travelling on your own but – Dear God
– like falling face down into warm mud, this is love – the sudden,
muddy sun.
You have the Polytunnel. Something about you will need
protecting. A bust creel’s a debt. You have a debt…doesn’t every-
one? Money is a pile of anything. Cabbages mean money as manure
does. Cool leaves creak between your palms in the evening. It’s
enough. Pull one.
I see the Wren. Behind and before, above and below you.
That’s luck. And under the sun, the Dark-Haired Hammerer. In
the gleaming grass, the ducks will gleam like curling stones. You’ll
get off scot-free, trusting everyone.
You will love the land. You will love the land like a bairn.
The Hammerer. The Wren. The dropsy helicopter choring along.
The heron like a sickle reaps an Iron-Age sun.
© Jen Hadfield, from T S Eliot Prize 2008 winner Nigh-No-Place, published by Bloodaxe. Reproduced by kind permission.
