Pruning
I dock the dead, the damaged and diseased; the gnarled and dry come tumbling from the heights until I stand knee-deep in bits, well-pleased I’ve put a few square yards of world to rights. I clip and crop, encouraging new growth. My fingers start to ache but still I snap my Homebase secateurs. I grin as both the gleaming silver blades expose more sap. I deftly make the kindest cuts, and take the part of surgeon, Adam, God. But mend myself, I cannot. No sharp shears will make me sprout, or slow my geriatric trend. So, wrinkling, stiffening, stooping, short of breath, I spend my weekends saving plants from death.
Jim C. Wilson
from Paper Run (Mariscat, 2007)
Poem supplied courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library |