Life and Death in the Country
Too good to be true
Is the adage that comes to mind
In a North Devon village;
Neurotic lawns
Neat as carpet over which the shadows spill,
Growing like secrets
In the length of the day.
Shrieks
Of poppies, ivy cladding that tumbles
From the eaves
And potted things
Along the curtained sills of drawing room lives.
The canal lies silently to the backs of houses
And a toothy churchyard
Of known graves.
The water is hard and glossy
And black
And only on closer inspection
Are the plants visible, obscure and yellowing,
That litter the bottom
And peer back, like faces from the past or a dream.
I can’t help but think
There must be something hidden here,
Something that feeds the tall,
Watery grasses, the velvet lawns,
The flowers bright as blood,
Bright as murder,
Something buried
To preserve the peace.
