Patrick Toland
BLUEBELLS

after Kavanagh

 

His wife, he said, yearned

To bed down in a field of bluebells.

 

So taking her at her word

He bulbed and littered every

 

Patch of turf from the yard

To the swinging willow.

 

Murdered every living thing

So she could have her make

 

Pretend among the apt-named

And play the witch and thimble.

 

When season came, the torrid

Rain had hampered growth

 

And there was a dearth

Of bluebells—only buttercups

 

And downy weeds that feathered

In the wind. Resolved, he said—

 

She was to have a crib of bluebells.

So even though desire is also found

 

In yellow chins and flimsy breaths,

He nourished down the patch

 

With peat and planted ferns

Like good companions.

 

Still no bluebells came.

He shaded down the stead

 

With beech and, having spent

Most summers there, placed

 

A seat for waiting and often

Brought a pitcherful of mint

 

And lime and when he drank

She saw in him, at last, the thirst

 

And lust for all things natural

And how the land he tilled

 

Was a bed of nails and she

Was standing on his back.

 

There, under the beech

And the sky like a full sail,

 

She asked if they’d make love.

And the colour on his chest

 

Rose like a field of bluebells.

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