Line me up with 

your hands gloved in garden –

barbed wire thorns to lacerate soft flesh

and mark scars like

the passage of time

bind my hands like a hook on a string 

to the boards that defy the waves

of my back and force-feed me

between your finger and thumb 

ripe

like the pearls of budding peas within the jackets

of runner beans. 

His words are deemed the 

“Salt of the Earth,” but to me

fall like dumb sand – 

his tongue sugared with dirt 

from the soil, he towers over 

in the land he bears my knees into. 

Time is an allotment 

we all fight to conquer the fading daylight 

wear light rays like crowns 

patchworked up against the other 

by the sill of the fence 

but the man continues to rise from the scorched bulbs

whilst we are left 

battling plastic smiles and poisoned pies 

to detract from countryside aprons

and daffodil bouquets

until we are left fizzy inside 

like a Coke can with a peeled-back lid

secrets exposed

innards on show

black tar and broken white chalk 

night and day 

aching to please.

Blue seashells catch

the echoes of wishes

from soft, suburban lips 

this stretch is a painful climb 

on an endless decline

as Man continues to dominate the plot and

one by one

takes his lot

weeds and prunes his square of land

over us saplings 

to shade out the sun.

This was written by our contributing writer, Aimee Donnell