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.