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    2 poems by Kate Garrett

     

    A quietening of spirits

     

    A reaching treescape carries you up to the little

    house, bare branches scraping fingers at your

     

    shoulders. This November is your own reflection.

    Here are liquid jewels in a short glass; one sip

     

    lets the light in, breaks the gloom. The tickle

    and smoulder in your chest, an inside-out embrace

     

    – danger is again a distant memory, anger calmed –

    prepared, patient – a bright and knowing fly agaric

     

    on the forest floor. This is your offering to noisy

    ghosts, gifts for the imp who makes her home inside

     

    your heart – whiskey and rain clear the border

    path, steer cold fingertips from autumn to winter.

     

    Groundwork

     

    It’s nine feet tall and too much for itself—full of beetles

    and butterflies, a holiday home for snails, blank canvas

    for spiders. When I step inside the buddleia’s shade,

    blossoms kiss my nose and chin, tap my shoulders, a lace

    of stems reach out to clasp my fingers in thanks. I weave

    my own spindle arms through the branches, deft shears

    nick and snip. When I emerge, wayward boughs cut back,

    the treetop dropped down to the height of a lover. I look

    up and we understand each other. Evening is still sleeping

    at the far end of my garden; next year’s flowers will be sweet.

     

    ____________________

     

    Kate Garrett writes and edits. Her poetry is widely published, and has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, and longlisted for a Saboteur Award. Born in rural southern Ohio, Kate moved to England in 1999, where she still lives in Sheffield with her husband, children, and a cat.