Weeding - Renée Boyer

Trowel bites dirt, 
stone-jarred wrist jangling, 
roots severed cut by 
jagged cut 
tossed onto the pile 
to die. 
Swipe away sweat 
with soiled  
that's not how 
if you would just 
why do you 

Dig, slice, thwack 
pull, snip, yank 
Sun aches on 
pinkening skin,    
you shouldn’t've 
that’s not where
why don't you    

tiny prickles worm 
beneath gloves 
barbed tongues,
lick skin 
from the inside 
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 

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.


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