Weeding - Renée Boyer
Trowel bites dirt,
stone-jarred wrist jangling,
roots severed cut by
jagged cut
tossed onto the pile
to die.
pause.
Swipe away sweat
with soiled
glove.
that's not how
if you would just
why do you
Dig, slice, thwack
pull, snip, yank
toss.
pause.
Sun aches on
pinkening skin,
you shouldn’t've
that’s not where
why don't you
tiny prickles worm
beneath gloves
grow
barbed tongues,
lick skin
from the inside
pause.
Soil watered
in sweat.
Grasp thistles
low on stem
to avoid
the pricks
you can't mean
what was the
I would never
reach, pull, hack,
crush, reach
pull, hack
crush
pause.
breathe.
An ode to doors and windows, which open as often as they close - Renée Boyer
The red red rose has rotted.
The turtle dove has died.
The angel choir is silent.
The perfume cloud has dried.
No longer do I wander through
Sweet scented meadows’ flowers.
My weeks remain unaltered:
Hours pass like hours.
Stars prick holes in the dark of night:
My eyes, they twinkle not.
The fevered brow has frozen,
And severed is the knot.
And yet my world’s not ended,
My heart’s not ripped in two.
I’ve cried, but not a river.
I’ll die, but not for you.
Contributor's Note
Renée is a Comms manager by day, creative writer at night (and occasionally lunchtime). Her 10-minute plays have been performed all over the world, with the most recent premiering in Hollywood. She is currently attempting to write a novel, as part of the Master of Professional Writing.