the harvest
‘nard and saffron
calamus and cinnamon,
with every kind of incense tree,
with myrrh and aloes,
and all the finest spices’
song of solomon (4, 14)
I sit on kitchen floor and bury my hands in
the basket of lavender, elbow deep in the flowers
I have stripped from swathes of dried stems
the whorl of a thousand petals tinged with the same
deep lilac that seeps between the soft tendrils of dusk
and the hollow of the night, if only for an instant
this scent that lives and breathes in me is thrown
again into the cloying air with each rhythmic turn
of my sifting hands, balsamic and sweet
outside the window the tomatoes reel, drunk from
the vine, and the sage and basil leaves hang heavy,
pregnant with their fragrance
I go to fill the bath with great armfuls of lavender,
and catmint, saffron and lemon balm, and let the
water run hot and creaking from the rusty taps
When the tub is spilling over and all the tiles awash,
I sink in under the speckled surface and I call out to
you across the rooms to wake you from sleep
slad road
she stands with her back to me
as she rolls her cigarette,
humming tunelessly at the sink.
and I watch her wash pots
we quietly fill the air with smoke,
and it billows up in fat curls
above the shelves of jam jars
filled with herbs and hot pink salts
outside the cars purr by
and rain falls in sheets of mist
and the drunken man shouts
on the roadside, fuming
we sit and watch the candles burn low
the honeyed taste of dripping wax
sweet on our burnt tongues,
and the coffee is bitter and delicious
meanwhile the wild mimosa
blooms against the window
and the bruise of the night
darkens still behind the moon
I peel the blood oranges
ruby juice spilling out
as I break open the fruit
and I hand her a piece
We eat with out speaking,
our thoughts filling the silence –
in these unhurried moments
we are glass amongst sand
kintsukuroi
(n) (v.phr.) “to repair with gold”
the summer’s loud heat
is still ringing in my ears
and the baked earth
sits quietly cooling
i long for the sound of rain
smashing the canopy of gold
the fat drops lashing the trunk
and drumming the apples
the clouds hanging low and heavy
casting a crisp shadow
i watch the blazing dandelions
turn to milk witch clocks
with delicious restlessness
their downy seeds
unbuttoning themselves
into the october wind
starry florets flying bright
against the steely skies
and the brisk chill and snap
of the autumn months
cannot come sooner
i am tired of the bucket
always tumbling on its string
down to an empty well
this heat has been too long
i am thirsty
i am thirsty
Poppy Henderson is a 22-year-old Publishing and Creative Writing student living in the
beautiful city of Bath, UK. I'm an avid poet, café-loiterer and am currently writing my first novel. Sharon Olds, Mary Oliver and Kate Tempest are my poetic idols!