Bloom little perfection,
lavender rocks and lemonade irises,
bitch-breath of nature’s heresy,
veining the earth and choking all
to a dull blue lust .
Hear –
that rainwater is not hissing
a glitter on your needle-leaves.
Will I raise your pin-prick hands
to squeeze and bleed salutations
and hopes of heaven,
the pearl blossoms tolling desire?
Until spring language makes you
a nursemaid to feed
the crêpey petals of a fast-dying anemone.
Perhaps now, you are not murderer to me
or the star beds of this unseen stream.
Róisín Ní Neachtain is a writer and artist living in Kildare, Ireland. Her third collection of poetry was published with Broken Sleep Books.
More work by Róisín Ní Neachtain
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